


With Good Intent

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: AU Book 1, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Battle of Dover, France (Country), Gen, Multi, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Captain Laurence of the Amitié has been spying on the French for years. Nothing in his experience prepares him for the possibility of becoming captain to a Chinese Celestial – a dragon meant for the French Emperor – and certainly not for the subsequent attention this provokes when he is, therefore, the only person capable of negotiating with China.





	

“All prisoners subdued, Sir.”

“Thank you; have the captain brought to me.”

Lieutenant Favre exits. Laurence waits until the door closes to lean back against his chair and sigh.

Outside his port window the damaged hulk of the _HMS Reliant_ bobs on the ocean, the deck crawling with triumphant men. It is days like this that most plague at his conscience – days when he cannot help but feel guiltily pleased with his success, and wonder if he is not going mad.

As a spy for the English crown he knows that his position is important. The information he hands to the Admiralty, knowledge of French naval movements and war tactics, is far more vital in the grand scheme of matters than his incidental position as a ship's captain. If Laurence were not the captain of the _Amitié_ some Frenchman would be. Laurence does not flatter himself; it is entirely likely that such a man would have routed Captain Riley's _Reliant_ just as well, even though the fight was hard-won. The _Amitié_ has had ill-luck in recent weeks and the _Reliant's_ stores may yet save them.

Despite the rigors of battle Captain Riley stands tall and proud when he is brought to the captain's cabin. His coat shows signs of being well cared-for though presently it is smeared with blood and powder. He observes Laurence coldly.

“You fought well,” Laurence acknowledges honestly. “But I would have your surrender now if you are prepared to give it. The words must almost be mocking; Riley hardly has another option.

Yet Riley pauses. Squints at him. “You are no Frenchman.”

“American, and not so long removed from England,” Laurence says. After being questioned so many times on this account the lie rolls smoothly from his lips.

“So you are a traitor.”

This he does not answer. “Your surrender,” he prompts again.

Twin spots of red appear in the man's cheeks as he gives it.

“Excellent. I will give you word of safe-conduct if you can assure the behavior of your men.”

“That should not be an issue; that is, you have my word,” Riley amends.

“Then - “

Laurence is cut off when the cabin door bursts open. Riley glances around with evident satisfaction – the interruption is hardly professional. “Lieutenant?” Laurence demands. He puts his hand to his sword. None among his crew would run about without reason.

First Lieutenant Rey answers in French. “Sir, it is the egg.”

“The egg?” Laurence straightens immediately. The diplomatic connotations of China's overture to Napoleon are not so disastrous as Britain once feared from his report, but the egg is meant for the emperor himself. If it has been damaged - “What has happened?”

“Captain, we have not checked it for days,” says the man miserably. “We did not know – we could not - “

“Say it, then.”

“Sir, it is hardening – it will hatch soon.”

For a moment Laurence stands frozen. Suddenly he understands why the _Amitié_ was treated so abruptly in Tien-Sing - why they barely landed at the harbor before being forced away again. “Gods,” he says insensibly. Aware of Captain Riley's stare he reverts to English. “Your officers will have the liberty of the deck, Captain – do not abuse the privilege.” Then he must leave at once or risk allowing his alarm to show.

The dragon egg is being kept by the galley for warmth, crated and packed like fine porcelain. Two midshipmen stand over it nervously. “Sir,” says one as he approaches. “We wanted to see that it was well after the fighting – we didn't expect - “

“You are hardly to blame, Mr. Martel. A dragon will hatch when it wishes.” Yet he observes the egg grimly and, approaching the open crate, puts his hand down to touch the shell. It feels warm and brittle against his skin. It _will_ hatch soon, sure enough. But the truth of the matter does not change their circumstances. They will be fortunate to reach Madeira within seven or eight days and the Chinese were very clear that the egg will hatch within a week or so of hardening – there will certainly be no possibility of delivering this prized creature to its rightful companion. To the Emperor of France.

Laurence closes his eyes. He realizes, in a distant, calm way, that he is probably going to be executed.

“There is only one option,” he tells the men abruptly. They jump in surprise as he looks around. “ - Have Bonnaire prepare a harness. Quickly.”

* * *

 

Laurence tells those few officers who ask – relieved and horrified by his sacrifice all at once – that it will be a great insult to the Chinese to find that anyone besides the Emperor has been made a companion to their prized beast. This is true enough, so if anyone aboard must take the dragon into harness then he, the highest-ranking officer, is the only person suitable.

The reality is more complex. The life of a spy is fraught with danger. His subterfuge will be discovered eventually, of this Laurence has no doubt. But now, after reporting this disaster to the Admirals – to the Emperor – his use may be at an end. If he can steal a heavy-weight dragon from under the French before being stripped of rank – or worse – he will consider that a victory. Perhaps when he reaches France he can cross the Channel and join back with England as an aviator...

But that is a thought for later.

He has to shed his coat when it becomes soaked with sweat. The heat in the galley has been increased to help the egg. The shell seems harder and more brittle every day. Bonnaire has advised him to talk to the egg, for whatever reason, and when no one is around he speaks to it in quiet English. Sometimes it helps to remember that he once had a life before this ship.

“I suppose you may refuse me after all, and then I might be killed, though that will not be your fault,” Laurence says. “I am certain the Emperor will kill me eventually and no one in my family will ever know of it.”

The ships sways easily under them. Every few minutes Laurence thinks he can hear a muffled squeak from inside the shell; it is probably his imagination.

“...It would be quite something to fly,” he says.

* * *

 

The egg hatches before they reach Madeira. Laurence knows enough of harnessing procedures to be standing by with a hastily-made leather construction. One of the cooks brings out an oxen from the _Reliant_ while they wait. The only other person present is Bonnaire – a Midshipman whose brother serves among the aviators – and he makes regretful faces as the bull's lowing dies away outside the room. The smell of fresh blood becomes pungent.

They keep it in an empty hold for the hatching; two bulkheads have been knocked away so the creature will have room to move. The egg is nearly half his size, but it looks strange and unfamiliar swaying and clicking of its own volition in the center of the room. Every few seconds sharp pings and squeaks rise from the shell. Finally a hairline fracture creeps out from one part of the pale surface. Laurence holds his breath.

Nothing else happens. The room seems to wait. Then, with sudden force, something black and spindly bursts through the crack and erupts into the air. It pulls back before Laurence can gain a proper look. Similar, berserk force is applied to the rest of the egg. Bits of shell splinter around the room as it wobbles dangerously. Finally the top portion of the egg falls away and a dark head rises up.

The black dragon pulls himself onto the floor almost fastidiously, pausing only to turn around and nose away a bit of broken shell from his gleaming hide. He waves his neck around and then begins to skitter around the room to peer at every corner. He peers long and hard at Bonnaire, unsatisfied.

Then he looks at Laurence.

“Why are you afraid?”

Laurence blinks. The dragon scuttles closer, staring at him with something he can now identify as worry. “ - I beg your pardon,” he manages at last. “It is no reflection on you.”

“I hope I am not frightening,” says the dragon. It is both kind and twice-ridiculous; of course a dragon should be frightening, and of course this small, skinny creature is not.

“No, not at all. My thoughts were quite elsewhere.” Laurence kneels carefully. The dragon watches him with interest. “My name is William Laurence.”

“Yes, I know. I heard you in my shell,” and then Laurence realizes they are speaking in English.

He glances at Bonnaire, but it is hard to tell from the man's stare just what he is thinking. Laurence turns back to the dragon as it continues, “I do not have a name, do I?”

Laurence clenches his fist against his knee. “I could give you one if you like.”

The dragon considers this proposition for only an instant. “Very well; but do choose a good one.”

“Temeraire,” Laurence says. It is the name of a vessel and suitably French. He inwardly apologizes to King and Country for not giving it the English inflection. “Will that suffice?”

Temeraire preens. “Yes; may I eat now?” he adds, straining to look about as a cook peers around the door.

“A moment more, dear,” Laurence says. Temeraire is perfectly compliant as he lifts up the harness, only watching quizzically and straining his head to peer at the mess of buckles and leather straps. It does not fit perfectly, but it will suffice. He will have to make provisions for Temeraire's comfort after he eats.

“ _Now?”_ the dragon asks plaintively.

“Yes,” he says, and surprises himself by smiling as he gestures to the cook.

* * *

 

“Am I a prisoner too?” Temeraire asks.

Laurence looks down at him in surprise. “My dear, why would you ask such a thing?”

The crew of the _Reliant_ are being taken out on the deck in brief rotations, although of course they are under close guard. They all seem particularly glad to have a chance to stretch their legs, but it is hardly as though they are being treated poorly.

“I am not allowed to fly, just as those men are not allowed to walk around the ship on their own,” Temeraire says. “And I wear a harness just as the men wear signs of their capture.”

The tiny dragon is growing rapidly – already he reaches Laurence's waist, and the way everyone frets to adjust his harness cannot have escaped him. “My dear, it is quite different. You cannot fly yet for your own safety, but certainly I shall be glad to see you in the air soon. And indeed you wear a harness - “ Laurence is unsure if dragons are meant to take them off, or what the proper procedure is - “But as you see many of our men wear uniforms and other equipment meant to help with their tasks.”

“I quite fail to see how this helps me with anything.” Temeraire twists his neck around to nose sullenly at the contraption.

“One day we will fly together, Temeraire, and I am sure you will have a great crew of your own. We will surely be assigned to fight in the war - “ As a best-case scenario. Laurence falls silent.

Temeraire perks up. “Fighting – you have described your battle with the _Reliant,_ and that sounds quite exciting. But what is the war, and why does it cause fighting?”

“We will fight for – for our country. There is a grand feud in Europe between several different nations. I have served for years to protect the country - “ to protect England - “ - and now we shall join up with the aviators to serve in the air.”

“Is that very heroic, serving one's country?” Temeraire asks. “You have not said what country this is we are meant to protect.”

Laurence pauses too briefly, he hopes, for it to be noticed. “France,” he says. “ - We will protect the citizens of France.”

“France.” Temeraire rolls the word around. “ - Yes, that is a good name. I am glad we will be able to help people, Laurence.”

Laurence has to turn his face away. “So am I, my dear,” he says softly.

* * *

 

“Are you quite prepared, Temeraire?”

“Yes, yes, I have _been_ prepared,” Temeraire says. He flaps his wings with great agitation. “Oh, the shore is in sight, surely we may fly now? We cannot lose the ship if we fly toward the land. I want to get closer, Laurence, it looks so very large.”

Madeira is a small island, but for a creature born on the sea it must seem massive. “Very well, dear. Be careful, and if you experience any difficulties, the slightest problem - “

“Yes, yes, I know.” And without further ceremony Temeraire bounds off the side of the ship and spreads his wings.

Laurence feels the breath leave him in a rush. Above, Temeraire gains altitude rapidly and circles like some great eagle. He looks larger than ever, the heavy black width of his wings fanning behind him and swelling with air.

Then Temeraire becomes smaller, smaller. Soon he is just a speck in the distance. Laurence closes his eyes and moves to lean against the ship's railing. Salt sprays his face, a familiar feeling. For a moment he could be a young lieutenant, unmoored and confused. Perhaps he will turn around to see the flags of England and honest men behind him, and walk on to find nothing has changed at all.

“Laurence! Laurence, will you not join me? Oh, it is wonderful, it is the most wonderful thing in the world.”

Temeraire jolts the ship when he lands again. Cries of dismay rise nearby from the sailors and Laurence looks up at his eager, serpentine face.

He will forever miss his dreams of England; but a ship, perhaps, is something he can do without.

“Yes, my dear,” he says. “I would love nothing more than to fly with you.”

* * *

 

Laurence has been in Paris several times over the past few years but the city never fails to unnerve him. Here is the symbol of the Empire, the jewel of France – here is where Marie Antoinette was killed and where Napoleon himself, the pretender, crowned himself as the nation's sovereign.

Paris is also the site of the Tuileries Palace, and it is there that he has been summoned, immediately upon leaving the _Amitié_ , to a meeting with the Emperor himself.

It is an unnerving request, so he is understandably at a distraction, not helped by the fact that Temeraire is insatiably curious about everything. Laurence's best coat is a brief source of interest; “You should certainly wear that every day,” he approves. “ - Or perhaps add more gold,” which is an alarming proposition. Then he seems content to inspect the city as they fly overhead, though Laurence stops him from approaching too close and frightening anyone.

Temeraire is directed to wait at the end of the palace's garden when they land. “Oh, but everything shines so well,” he says wistfully. He is eyeing the ceremonial weapons of the guards rather than the palace, and despite himself Laurence has to smile.

There are many people outside when they land, some of whom scatter with amazing rapidity. Two men, completely unruffled, approach Temeraire from the palace front. They catch Laurence's attention immediately and the finery of their clothes mark them as officials. One, shorter, seems to be a foreigner.

Laurence reaches the ground in good time to greet the pair, but he's startled from speech when the second man promptly bows low to the ground. The gesture doesn't seem to be aimed at Laurence, so he just wavers uncertainly. The other official looks unfazed.

“I am Duroc,” this man begins, “head of the palace staff. This is my associate Zhou Lim.”

The second man rises to his feet and says something in a dialect of Chinese. He looks expectantly at Laurence.

“I beg your pardon. I do not understand.”

Duroc frowns faintly. “You may speak to the Celestial,” he tells the stranger. The man nods, shoots Laurence a piercing look, and moves around to Temeraire.

Duroc gestures for Laurence to follow him inside. “Ambassador Lim is one of our correspondents from Peking. If you will have a Chinese dragon and will not even be royalty you must at least know Mandarin, and preferably Cantonese as well; they think very lowly of anyone who does not know their language.”

Laurence does not quite allow himself to feel hope. Temeraire's murmur fades away as he steps inside the palace with Duroc. Is he not being stripped of rank, then? And Temeraire...

The Tuileries is a long and winding building. They pass courtiers in glittering clothes who eye the pair with unabashed curiosity. One man they pass – Laurence does not recognize him – has a dark coat covered with gold fleur-de-lis and a blue and gold baton hanging from his hip, a sign of a Marshal of France.

Eventually they come to a room with two guards. “The Emperor will receive you now.” Duroc stands aside.

Laurence enters.

He has been led into an office of some sort – very grand, with a desk on raised flooring on the opposite end of the room. Three men stand here speaking quietly. They look up at his entrance and seem sour. “I will speak with you later. Make no more changes to this without my approval.”

“As you say, Your Majesty.” An older man turns and eyes Laurence with watery blue eyes. His head is covered with a neat, perfumed wig. The man sniffs, plucks his parchment from the table, and marches out. The other strangers file after him sullenly.

Which leaves only one person standing stern and forbidding at the end of the room. He turns to Laurence.

“So. You are the one who stole my dragon.”

Laurence chooses to remain silent. Napoleon does not seem to expect a response. “You understood what you were doing, of course – you must have understood.” He sweeps closer. The Emperor's brilliant red and gold coat flashes like jewels. “Unless you are a fool as well as an usurper?”

“Sire,” Laurence says. The word sticks in his throat, but he takes a breath and continues. “My only possible defense is that I deemed the inevitable loss of a dragon - “ Best not to use Temeraire's name. “ - as a tragedy for the Empire. I regret the necessity but if I have acted wrongly I have no recourse.”

Napoleon watches him intently and for a moment says nothing. Laurence keeps very still. Tension coils in his shoulders. At last the Emperor snorts. “Well, at least you are _not_ stupid. Small mercies for us all.”

Laurence blinks once.

“If you are determined to make such a _sacrifice_ for the Empire – or, I suppose, take such an opportunity – then you have severely narrowed your options and you should know it.”

“...Sire?” Laurence is horribly confused.

“I have spent enough time with Liberté,” Marshal Murat's dragon, “To understand the folly of trying to separate a captain and companion. You need fear no action on that account.” Laurence has not realized the full depth of his concern on this matter until relief floods him at the Emperor's words. “The Chinese, however, will take offense at this match. It took over two years to finalize the agreement between our countries – small wonder that the egg hatched too soon. They demand royal companions for the Celestials. You know this?”

“We heard some talk in Tien-Sing,” Laurence says. Very little talk; they departed the harbor within three days of arrival, though the visit left a vivid impression.

Napoleon taps a hand against his desk.

“...You are an American, I am told? Why did you join the French navy?”

“Some recall our debts from the Revolution, Sire. I only hope my countrymen will remake their alliances with the Empire soon, but I will not wait idly while there is fighting to be done.”

This answer seems to win approval. “Well, you must not be useless to have made captain here – I suppose this has not been a disaster.” He pauses. “I suppose at the greatest extremity I could marry you to one of my sisters - “ Laurence makes an abbreviated sound which he quickly muffles - “ - but you understand why I might wish for... more advantageous matches for them.”

“...I beg your pardon?” Laurence asks faintly.

Napoleon looks at him impatiently.

“You are not a prince; you must become something. France is a place where men of merit can rise. We will have to assess you quickly, before the Chinese hear of this mess. You will fly with Murat's formation at the start. He will see what you are worth. Now, go. I am busy.” And turning back to his work he seems to dismiss Laurence entirely.

Duroc ushers Laurence from the room in a state of complete bewilderment. “I believe congratulations are in order – Murat's formation is a prime posting.”

Laurence shakes his head as though to clear it. “I do not know what to think,” he admits.

“You need only do your duty and remember that our Emperor is watching,” Duroc says. “I would not let his attitude fool you, Captain – if he has promoted you to such a post, even conditionally, he is entirely aware of your service and background.”

Laurence feels a chill sweep through him. “Oh?” he manages.

“He seems impressed,” says Duroc, which is not encouraging in the least. Laurence wonders how deeply Napoleon has investigated him. “Now, Murat's formation is at the covert in Wissant. I am sure you know the way - “

* * *

 

“They do not seem very friendly, Laurence,” Temeraire says uncertainly.

There are two light-weights guarding the palace – the first dragons Temeraire has ever seen. They stand stiff and straight as he watches, completely unmoving.

“Pray do not take it to heart. They are only doing their duties.”

“I hope we are not meant to stand very still all day – it does not look exciting.” Temeraire lowers his head and sighs. “Are you ready?”

Laurence considers Temeraire for a moment. His previous curiosity has all but dissipated. He seems anxious, his tail lashing worriedly. “Perhaps we shall make a brief stop before joining the formation at Wissant,” he says. “No one will begrudge us that.”

Temeraire perks up and looks at him with interest.

He has Temeraire rest outside Paris while he makes a withdrawal from the bank; then they go together to Rouen where Laurence once bought a fine sword and saw many other metalworks on sale.

The hour is late, but when Temeraire squirms himself down into the little hill behind the smithy a man comes out to greet them. “Hmm,” he says, looking at Laurence rather than his dragon. “I remember you, I think. Broke your sword already?”

Feeling rather warm to the man for this bland greeting, Laurence says, “No; I rather thought we might try something more interesting,” and he explains what he has in mind.

The smith looks more intrigued when he speaks. “Well, what is your opinion, beastie?” he asks Temeraire. “I will find a good decoration for you yet. Let me find some designs...”

A few minutes later Temeraire is tutting and shaking his head at parchment after parchment of figures – stags and lions and even dragons – that the man holds up. “Picky customers are a good challenge,” is all he says, unbothered. “What of this one?” he suggests, and holds up yet another pattern. The smith doesn't flinch when Temeraire thrusts his nose down and exclaims with delight.

“Oh, yes,” says Temeraire. Laurence exhales and says nothing. “Is that not wonderful, Laurence?”

“The dragon has good taste,” says the smith. And he turns to his work.

So when Temeraire leaves he bears the image of an eagle on a platinum breastplate, the edges studded with little sapphires and rubies. Some of these, Laurence thinks, look a little like bees at a close glance. The dragon swoops delightedly through the air as they speed toward the shore, his earlier melancholy all but forgotten. And if Laurence is quiet in the harness he does not seem to notice.

* * *

 

“Zhou Lim told me you spoke to the Emperor,” Temeraire says as they approach Wissant. “Is he a great man, this Napoleon? Surely he is to have won all the loyalty of this nation.”

“He is... certainly a genius, and he has won the love of this country. No one can say he is not an exceptional leader.” These things are true, and things Laurence can say without hesitation, but they sit ill in his throat as no lie has in years.

“And did you find him impressive, Laurence?”

“I found him abrupt,” Laurence answers, a little so himself. “Here is the covert, Temeraire. Land over there if you please. I see they are expecting us.”

Indeed, as they descend Laurence recognizes both the man and the dragon awaiting them. He stiffens and checks his uniform out of habit. In hindsight he should have anticipated this.

“Oh, he is not so large,” Liberté says with idle languor as Temeraire touches down. “Look, he is thin as a Couronne.”

“I am sure he is still growing,” says Marshal Murat. “Well! Congratulations, Captain, and hello to you, Temeraire. Welcome to Wissant covert.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Laurence says stiffly. “I confess we did not expect to be meeting with you personally.”

“I would be remiss in not meeting my new comrades – come, come, I will show you around. Liberté, be so kind as to introduce Temeraire to the others?”

“I suppose,” Liberté says.

The covert is half-deserted. “Patrolling,” Murat explains as they walk, “So of course we are never at full capacity unless we are gathered for some reason – there will be good room for Temeraire, we have set aside a nice clearing for him just by Liberté and Accendare.”

“I thank you.”

“You speak like a lordling! I did not know they had those in America. Tell me, who were your parents?”

“There names were Catherine and Jerome, Sir; what professions or connections they held before journeying to the colonies I never learned.” This has always worked to deter people in the past.

Not Joachim Murat. “Criminals then! How excellent. But do not say as much to anyone else.” Laurence is somehow certain that the emperor himself will hear this rumor within a week.

Murat's attempt at playing host is erratic, and his idea of what information should prove necessary proves equally flighty. He dutifully indicates the most obvious areas – the requisition office, the dining hall, and even a dome-shaped building entirely built of rocks which is apparently kept heated with a mixture of coal and Flamme-de-Gloire flame to keep the dragon eggs inside at a constant high heat. He also finds it necessary to point out a particularly burnt clearing where just such a hatchling scorched her handler at their first meeting.

It occurs to Laurence as they walk that if all else fails he could win a coup for England simply by stealing a firebreather egg and dashing over the Channel with Temeraire, though blatant theft does sit somewhat ill on him. Somehow it always seems like one of the more shameful parts of his work, though nothing of spying can be called honorable save that he does it for England.

And at last they make their way to Temeraire's clearing, “Where I suppose you will spend much of your time. We will begin you on drills and signal lessons tomorrow and have proper introductions with the formation – I'm sure you're looking forward to a little rest.”

Temeraire is already situated and sitting up as they approach. “I may only hope,” Laurence says, and Murat laughs and leaves him.

“Oh, Laurence,” Temeraire tries to whisper. The attempt somewhat fails and leaves them talking at an awkward hiss. “I have met the other dragons and they are all so very impressive. Accendare has been serving for many decades and Liberté is young but they all say he is very _clever_ when he is not lazy, and Lumiere has already taken five English prizes... Laurence, however am I supposed to compare? I do not breathe fire, and I have not fought in two wars or three. Two of the dragons in Murat's formation are over a hundred years old!”

So great is his anxiety that Temeraire's talons dig into the dirt. At once Laurence rushes forward to the Celestial's lowered head. “My dear,” he says, touching the dragon's great jaw, “You are the equal of any of these dragons. The Emperor himself wanted your egg above any in France; never think of yourself as inadequate. Every soldier began in life with no experience, no battles to his name. Those will come in time. But I know already that you have the potential for greatness. You must only work hard to meet it.”

“Oh, I hope you are right,” Temeraire says anxiously. “I do not want to disappoint anyone.”

“You will never disappoint me, Temeraire.”

* * *

 

Lumiere spins around Temeraire with a great flourish as the younger dragon struggles to mimic his military-precise wingbeats. “You do not need to be discouraged,” the Flamme-de-Gloire consoles. “See, you are doing very well. That trick you do, the hovering, it will be very useful!”

To punctuate his statement the firebreather releases a short jet of flame. Temeraire jolts to a halt, his wings circling mid-air as the fire shoots past him. “Ho!” Shouts Captain Gustav. “Lumiere, the British will not be spitting cinders at us, stop trying to torch your friends!”

“I am quite well!” Temeraire insists, and to prove it he flies circles around the oversized mid-weight as they approach the ground.

“He is nearly ready to join us,” Gustav says when they reach the ground. “I would not have credited it. It will be some time before he reaches full growth, I am sure, but he is already exceptional with the patterns and signals.”

Temeraire preens. The French like to pair young dragons together to encourage competition and companionship. Lumiere is the youngest in Wissant at about a year old and the other dragon has done wonders for his self-esteem.

“I only hope to join in the fighting soon,” Temeraire says eagerly. “This drilling is so dull, and I am sure by the time I get to the Channel there will be no one left to defeat!”

At that even Lumiere chuckles. “I do not think we are that efficient,” he says.

Laurence walks with the other captain while the two dragons fly back to their clearings. “Is it typical for a dragon to be so eager for battle?” he asks lowly.

“Oh, yes,” says Gustav. His French was learned in the far South and his particular accent still tends to take Laurence a moment to parse. “In fact as they go he is _not_ particularly blood-thirsty; rather the opposite. You do not need to worry, Captain.”

One of Gustav's runners passes them a cheerful salute as she runs past. Her presence reminds Laurence of the necessity of picking the rest of Temeraire's complement. He sighs.

The senior officers have a lounge located off the commissary. It's still a bit of a shock to walk in and find Marshal Murat holding court in his corner. In England Laurence used to hear that aviators were coarse, hardened men, but all officers here have been perfectly well-mannered. If some of the younger enlisted men are a bit rambunctious, well, that is expected in the navy as well.

Laurence recognizes that to sit at that table must be his goal if he is to yield the best intelligence to England. But as he takes a seat with Gustav, still surveying the room, he notes, “Dragons serve for many years, yet I find it curious that most of our captains are so young.” He glances around, a slow frown forming. “ - All of our men and women seem young, actually.”

“Ah,” Gustav says. “You _are_ an American. You were not here for the Revolution. It was worse in the Navy and the Army, of course; many of high-birth were taken from their ranks and, well,” Gustav makes a slicing motion across his neck. Laurence grimaces. “We did not have so many nobles among the aviators. Now, of course, it is the opposite, and all the paranoid rich men send their sons here because it is well-known that those captains with dragons were safe. Not even the most ardent revolutionaries would dare kill a man and risk enraging his eighteen-ton best friend, eh?”

“It seems like an odd policy of insurance.”

“But an effective one,” Gustav maintains. “Some of the families think, now, that having dragons will give them power. Well that is wrong, so long as the men are loyal to their duties. And we are careful with promotions in the Armeé de l'Air. Of course, most men are loyal now. Bonaparte does not give a reason to be anything but.”

“Yes,” Laurence demurs. “ - I understand that.”

They both look up when a man comes to stand by their table. “Excuse me – Captain Laurence? Marshal Murat sends his compliments and would have a word with you.”

Gustav busies himself with his empty platter. “Certainly,” Laurence says, pushing aside his own tray uneasily. He rises and adjusts his cravat; across the room Murat speaks to two men by his side without once looking up at him.

Laurence crosses to him and stands politely by the Marshal. “You asked to see me, Sir?”

“Ah, Mr. Laurence – Gustav has said excellent things about Temeraire! You are prepared to fly with us tomorrow?” Murat prompts.

Laurence doesn't really know if he's qualified to make that judgment, but he's been military long enough to know there's only one acceptable answer. “Yes, Sir.”

A few of Murat's men eye him with clear envy. Duroc did not lie when he said that the Marshal's formation was a good posting. He failed to mention that Murat's wing holds the elite of France's air-forces. Even Accendare's formation of fourteen veterans are their juniors. Laurence has great faith in Temeraire but the Celestial is still only a few months old.

Murat doesn't seem to share his qualms. “Then see the quartermaster by tonight – I understand you still need a first lieutenant. Find someone to at least hold the position for our patrols. You can confirm them later.” This, clearly, is an order.

“Yes, Sir.”

* * *

 

It has taken Laurence half the night to walk to this secluded little cave off the coast. It will take him the rest of the night to walk back, and he will assuredly be seen by the morning watch. Laurence has already worked to establish a reputation for pacing around the covert at night, though – occasionally at he expense of his own sleep – so hopefully this should not be viewed with suspicion.

Laurence wanders inside the cave and rests against the wall. A tiny crab crawls over his boot and he watches it make a slow, creeping journey toward the far wall.

Midnight comes and goes. Nothing happens. He taps a pattern into the sand under his hand, fingers moving in random arcs.

Finally Laurence stands up. He brushes down his coat and looks around. The cave is utterly silent, utterly still. He turns to leave, and then a breath like a flapping sail sweeps across the entrance. Claws clatter through the detritus on the ground.

“Oh no, an enemy,” says Volly without any alarm whatsoever.

“Shush, you daft dragon,” says Captain James with great affection. The little Greyling shifts to find his footing on the ground and watches Laurence happily. “You will fool no one spying on us with _that_ kind of warning... Laurence, hullo. I thought you had been found out at last when you did not arrive last week. Your ship has been in the harbor awhile.”

Laurence exhales in relief. “You have my apologies,” he says. “I could not get away.”

“No, of course,” says James. “We expect that. You have news?”

“A good deal,” Laurence acknowledges grimly. “On first matters, I have had a letter from Captain Fabre.” Many captains, in fact, have been eager to write to him in some hope of gaining a return-letter carrying gossip about Laurence's own change of position – but he will get to that in a moment. “He had a dinner recently with Minister Decrés, who mentioned that Commodore Martin's ships are heading East - “

James pulls out a map, a parchment, and a quill immediately, well-prepared for this. It is too dangerous for Laurence to walk around carrying suspicious notes on French movements, so James must take his reports and bring the information back to England. He is no spy and no sailor, as he has said many times before, but over the years he has learned what questions the admirals might pose and where it might be necessary to prod Laurence for more information.

Tonight, though, it is necessary for him to ask questions again and again. Laurence's report is lacking. “I am sorry,” James says at last, and sets aside his quill; “But are you well, Laurence? You do not seem yourself.”

Laurence pauses. “I am sorry,” he says. “You are right, quite right, it – I must tell you anyway. My position has changed. I am no longer captain of the _Amitie.”_

James straightens. “Has your position been compromised?” He demands.

“No, nothing of the sort – pray do not be - “ Laurence waves his hand helplessly - “I have joined the Armeé de l'air.

James stares at him. “You what?” Volly perks up with interest.

So then the matter has to be explained; by the end James is shaking his head with disbelief. “I cannot tell if this is a disaster or a coup,” he says. “ - Horrible for our navy, of course, but – we have no one with their aviators, Laurence, no one except... anyway, what will you do now?”

“I cannot say if my information will be in any way useful,” Laurence says. “I cannot predict how my fortunes will fall from here. But I will maintain old connections as best I can, and I suppose do what must be done from here on.”

“Well if you ever need to return you have also captured a French dragon,” James says. “They give people rewards for that alone. Do not look so glum, Laurence. This is not a bad thing.”

Laurence looks over to where Volly is peering toward the dimming stars. “He _is_ a French dragon at the heart,” he says. “Temeraire... I am sure he is loyal to the Emperor.”

James falls quiet. “Oh,” he says. James, at least, is an aviator – James is one person who can understand. “ - Oh, I am sorry Laurence.”

“It does not matter,” he says abruptly. James is still looking at him with pity. “ - I must return. We have spoken too long already.”

“We have,” James agrees. “Volly, love, come along.”

* * *

 

The proliferation of female officers among the French still surprises him sometimes, but they are perfectly legal in all branches of the French military. Napoleon apparently made some noises about women in the army – his complaints were aimed at army-wives and followers more than the actual female soldiers – but the females in the Armeé de l'Air, especially, convinced him that they should remain. Given France's astonishing military victories thus far Laurence tends to concede to the wisdom in this.

Somehow he is still caught off-guard by Lieutenant Sajorna Tremble.

She's Corsican-born, which if not quite a good thing is no longer a phrase bandied about like an insult since Bonaparte himself has ascended the throne. Her sepia-dark hair nearly matches her skin, and she doesn't show a single hint of fear when Temeraire leans down to inspect her. “You are not dressed as nice as Marshal Murat,” he tells her, “Or my Laurence; but then no one is. And you look very nice, anyway, so I think you will do,” which is about as much of a blessing as he is likely to give based on first impressions.

“Good to meet you, Lieutenant; I trust you have been acquainted with your duties?”

“Aye, Sir. I served as lieutenant on Ombreux until Captain Sartre was killed.”

Well, at least one of them is experienced. “Very good. And are you ready, Temeraire?”

“Oh, yes, let us be away!”

Murat's formation is not the largest as Wissant, but it is a little unusual. Aside from Lumiere and Liberté they have a third mid-weight, another Papillon Noir like Murat's dragon. These two are usually coated with yellow stripes before going into combat to keep the British dragons continually wary of fire. Liberté only huffs and and lifts his wings when the paint is rushed out, evidently well-used to the tradition. It's odd for a mid-weight to lead a formation, but both he and Murat have evidently gained the respect of the larger dragons.

Temeraire and the second Papillon are also doused, though no one can really mistake Temeraire for a Flamme-de-Gloire with his unusual configuration - or his unusual size. If nothing else he will certainly confound the English until the Admiralty disperse Laurence's reports. There are no black heavyweights in Europe except for the night-flying Fleur-de-Nuits.

The rest of the formation consists of two other heavy-weights – Petit Chevaliers – and four light-weights, two Garde-de-Lyons and two Roi-de-Vitesses, who with their similar red colorations can also confuse their enemies.

Overall the formation is outfitted more for speed than power, which is a common French tactic. Temeraire fits in well; he has already been called a fast flier for his weight-class, and, as Gustav has told them, everyone is waiting eagerly to see what the 'Divine Wind' will look like. But privately Laurence has some doubts. Surely the Chinese have exaggerated somewhat with their stories. Since hearing about the Celestial's signature ability Temeraire has tried his hand at the mythical roar and has managed to do nothing but bruise some eardrums and frighten the birds.

But he can fly well enough – and, for a patrol like today's task, that is all anyone can require.

Temeraire holds his head high and keeps his shoulders perfectly level as they fly. Lieutenant Tremble comes to stand by the captain's post an hour into the flight to comment, “He has not nudged a wing out of line, Sir.”

“I should think not,” Laurence answers quietly. “Look at him – He is more eager than anything.” She stifles a smile.

They start out flying parallel with the coast a few miles into the Strait of Dover. It's an easy, cursory glance over the northeastern province before they loop back around and fly southwest, toward the Channel, where French and English ships are more likely to clash. Laurence would know; as soon as ships outdistance the shore-batteries they run the risk of assault, although the open sea has far worse dangers

After three hours fair flying, somewhere out between Fecamp and Worthing, they spot just such a conflict.

Two frigates on the open water – an English second-rate and a French third-rate, clearly hulled and faring poorly. Laurence looks to Liberté's signal-ensign as they fly forward.

He restrains a sigh of relief when he understands their orders. It is easy enough to limit damage from a ship, but harder to direct a heavy-weight dragon to subtly restrain his attacks. Providing indirect cover for Lumiere is less complicated, even if Temeraire does grumble.

There are no dragons in sight, and Lumiere has told them before what to do when confronting ships. The formation veers as one toward the frigates. Then the light-weights and Petit Chevaliers break away abruptly, leaving the middle line of four black and yellow dragons to stream forward. Liberté, at the head, spears ahead and dives at the ship before feinting away. The English ship wastes half a volley of their cannons after his shape. But Lumiere is right behind him – the real threat, though the English likely can't tell the difference – and he flies forward next. He must hope the English will think he's bluffing and wait to use their cannons.

But they don't. Crackshots ring over the water and Lumiere veers too late; he cries and staggers as a shot clips his chest, spinning away from the cascade. The final Papillon Noir wheels off as Temeraire ducks toward the Flamme-de-Gloire.

“Under him, Temeraire, quickly now,” Laurence says. Lumiere is flailing wildly in the air. “You can hover. Fly in front of him, and below, and let him come to you.”

Temeraire does this. Lumiere gets the hint and practically collapses against Temeraire's back, making the Celestial grunt with effort – and alarm, as a tongue of flame shoots over his head. This gives Laurence an idea that he dares not voice.

Apparently, he doesn't need to.

“Oh, Laurence, if we distract their cannons we could still light them on fire!” he insists. “I am sure we are fast enough!”

Laurence hesitates. “Lumiere needs a surgeon,” he says.

“I am quite well,” says Lumiere from behind. His wheezing tone somewhat belies the words. “Signal to the light-weights. They are fast, they will not get shot like silly hatchlings...”

“Oh, shush,” says Gustav sadly. “You did perfectly well, Lumiere.”

Tremble calls back to the signal-ensign. Around them the red Garde-de-Lyons and Roi-de-Vitesses flock toward the frigates.

Cannonballs spiral out without discrimination as the Papillon-Noirs mass around Temeraire again. The Petit Chevaliers feint at the ships from above and their grenadiers pepper the _HMS Windsprint_ with bombs. Most miss; some do not. Temeraire, meanwhile, drops like a stone in the direction of the enemy vessel.

Temeraire cries weakly as Lumiere scrabbles at his back, but the firebreather hangs on. Shots rattle by as the _Windsprint_ finally notices them among the distractions. When Temeraire skims by the ship he stops himself short of plummeting into the ocean with only a great effort, beating his wings heavily through the unaccustomed weight of Lumiere, and the Flamme-de-Gloire releases a massive stream of fire at the ship's sails.

Temeraire arcs back into the air and takes his place in the reformed formation. When they turn back Laurence gets a clear view of the _Windsprint_ burning, her men abandoning the ship in droves. The French ship is cheering.

“Best stick around,” Tremble comments, “To see that they don't steal the frigate,” and indeed her prediction proves true. Murat signals for the light-weights to descend to the third-rate and help keep her prisoners in order.

Temeraire, however, has another task. “Very well done,” Laurence says. “The Chevaliers can help you now, my dear, if you need relief.”

“Oh, he is not so heavy,” says Temeraire unconvincingly. His wings tremble in the air; that last lunge near the ship seemed to hurt him. “I am sure I can manage.”

“I would feel better if you had help, Temeraire.”

Finally the dragon concedes, and through a series of carefully-timed flying Lumiere's back slides down toward the shoulders of a Petit Chevalier. It is this odd trio that flies alone toward Wissant, slowly, as the dragons behind them circle the two damaged frigates like a flock of venturous red vultures.

* * *

 

Lumiere sleeps heavily over the next few days. Temeraire does as well, though he has no new scars save a few musket-ball-nicks; with great alarm Laurence had climbed to the ground upon landing only to notice huge black dents on his platinum breast-plate. He must have been shot several glancing blows to the chest, but nothing which stuck.

When Temeraire wakes on the second day after the battle he tells Laurence, “I did not think something so small could be so horrible – I am talking about those cannons. I saw the surgeon pull several balls from Lumiere. They are cruel things, I think, and I do not know that I like those ships at all. Did you truly command one, Laurence?”

“You knew my ship quite well. Cannons are meant to damage other ships primarily, but they can be turned on dragons and other men just as easily. Only be glad Lumiere was not more badly hurt, and pray you never get near burning-shot.”

“Oh, is that like Lumiere's fire?” Temeraire shifts his wings.

Laurence perceives a new possibility. “I hope, dear, that this occasion has not disturbed your willingness to go to battle.” The thought would not be unlikely, but it must be addressed if it is so.

But Temeraire straightens immediately. “No – no, not at all, Laurence. But I do not like to see my friends hurt,” he contends.

“To prevent that I fear we may only continue to fight, and hope yet to do better.”

Temeraire nods firmly. In the next clearing Accendare is practicing with her long spouts of flame, shooting heavy bouts over the treeline and illuminating the deep evening. He tilts his head up in the light, and says, “Then that is just what I shall do.”

* * *

 

“And you are meant to bow then, I think,” concludes Lieutenant Tremble somewhat doubtfully.

“There is a great deal of bowing in this culture.” Laurence receives the notes from her and skims it. There is a great deal to learn about the Chinese court even ignoring their language, and Laurence feels woefully unprepared.

Tremble sets down the parchment. “I have a question for you, Sir – if I do not presume too much. Do you think it is wrong, to hold loyalties to one country and fight for another?” His silence must last too long. “Which is not to say I am not loyal to France,” she adds, quickly, “But of course Corsica is my home, and... I suppose I do not know how you feel about America, but - “

Laurence suppresses a sigh. “I quite understand,” he says. “I would not say there is a necessary conflict, unless your home is at conflict at France – and then, you may only follow your conscience. But Corsica is a part of the Empire - “

“The Emperor has made us proud,” she says, “But a Corsican would not consider themselves 'French' anymore than you might call yourself English.”

Laurence picks up the notes again. He tries to act preoccupied.

“Of course you have met him,” says Lieutenant Tremble. “The Emperor. I suppose someone must think highly of you - “

“I suppose rather they must need me, and have no recourse,” Laurence says. “Politicians and commanders can have no place for personal opinions, Lieutenant. And presently I will have no place for rest, if I do not memorize this list; you are perfectly free to stop if you are tired.”

“Oh no, Sir, I'm sorry,” she says.

Relaxing his shoulders, Laurence bends over the parchment:

“Although I am do wonder,” the lieutenant says, “Just how desperate the foreign office is for Temeraire to stay with us...”

Desperate enough to make an Aerial-Captain learn Chinese. Laurence sighs again.

* * *

 

“I think Marshal Murat's taste in literature is much like his taste in clothing,” Temeraire says thoughtfully. “And his clothes are very nice, but books must have substance, and not just... flashiness.”

Laurence stifles a smile. He closes the borrowed book. “I will find something more suitable, dear. I think perhaps you are just not a reader of fiction. Now, what is this?”

In the air several small dragons flutter toward the front of the covert. Next to them even Accendare raises herself to her haunches and launches off without ceremony, although Liberté seems completely unfazed. That signifies nothing, however. All of Paris could be set ablaze and Liberté would only sniff and announce the smell unpleasant.

“Well, let us see what is happening,” Temeraire urges, and so of course Laurence has no choice but to agree.

Temeraire picks him up and they fly toward the entrance. An unfamiliar mid-weight, an Honneur d'Or, sits preening at the entrance. His companion seems to be the focus of the spectacle, and Murat personally comes forth to greet him. As he and Temeraire approach Laurence feels his heart freeze with recognition. Napoleon Bonaparte has come to Wissant.

Laurence's first inclination – his personal inclination – would be to avoid the Emperor at all costs. But his position does not allow for personal feelings. “How excellent,” he mutters awkwardly, though the situation is anything but. “Pray get closer, Temeraire. It is not everyday the Emperor visits.”

Temeraire, full of curiosity, needs little urging.

They spiral toward the little crowd and Temeraire hovers behind a few landed Garde-de-Lyons. Laurence notes with traitorous relief that Murat and Bonaparte are already moving away, speaking quietly, and the crowd slowly disperses – it has plainly been addressed. Laurence can have no obligation to ingratiate himself with the Emperor if it does not seem practical. Perhaps he will try to run into the man when Bonaparte is leaving the covert.

Just as this thought occurs, however, Bonaparte turns his head. He meets Laurence's eyes without surprise, raises a hand with cool expectation, and beckons.

“Oh – I think he wants to speak to us!” Temeraire blurts, and bursting forward rushes to the Emperor's side with just a few heavy wingbeats. Laurence fumbles to make an awkward bow, this made all the more confusing from his higher position aboard Temeraire's back.

“How convenient,” Murat calls to him. “We were just going to look for you, Captain. Will you join us? We're going to take our meal in Liberté's clearing, I think.”

Bonaparte eyes Temeraire, looking him up and down like he's assessing a horse.

“I would be honored, Sir.” Laurence hurriedly joins them on the ground, much to Temeraire's bewilderment.

“What an excellent piece of finery,” Bonaparte says suddenly. He's looking at the silver eagle engraved on Temeraire's chestplate.

“Oh, thank you very much,” Temeraire puffs himself up. “It was a gift from Laurence. He says it is the symbol of France, which seems very important.”

“That it is,” the Emperor agrees.

“I would speak to you for a moment first, Captain,” Murat says. “Temeraire, will you take the Emperor on to meet with Liberté?”

“Of course!” Without any ceremony Temeraire snatches up Bonaparte. Laurence cringes as they fly away.

Murat snorts at his expression. “The Emperor is accustomed to dragons, Captain – he will not execute you or your dragon for a little lack of tact. Now. I wanted to talk to you about your friend Gustav.”

“Captain Gustav – what of him?”

“I wanted your opinion,” Murat says, “On he and Lumiere. They are relatively new here, and Lumiere fared poorly on our last patrol. He will be out of commission for a few weeks yet; I have been considering replacing him. I would have your thoughts.”

Laurence bites back his initial impulse. “Sir, I daresay you know the Captain better than I,” he says.

“Certainly!” Murat dismisses at once. “I want your opinion anyway.”

This leaves Laurence trapped. He wonders blankly whether it would benefit England or hurt her to keep Gustav with Murat's formation. He is becoming a known quantity, at least. But Laurence's answer could also affect how Murat perceives him. “It is my opinion that any dragon could have been shot down,” Laurence says finally. “If you believe there is some pair better deserving of their position, Sir, than by all means they should be replaced; however, I can only imagine you chose Gustav and Lumiere for your formation with deliberation. One wound should not be enough to ground a good pair if they are worth that trust.”

Murat eyes him. “You speak very confidently, Captain,” is what he says. Laurence stiffens. “No, no; I will consider that. Hm. Well, let us not leave my brother waiting - “

They find the Emperor sitting at a large, neatly-furnished table that has been set up in Liberté's clearing. Wide silver platters have been set aside for the dragons and their considerations have clearly been taken into account. Bonaparte looks very dwarfed indeed as he cranes his neck to listen to Temeraire talk.

“ - and I do not quite understand,” Temeraire is saying, “Why we are not used more effectively, anyway; for you know it seems to me that dragons could be used for more than fighting. You humans are all very small.”

“We _are_ small,” Bonaparte humors him. “What did you have in mind?”

“When we flew over Tardinhen recently I saw men carting stone for the roads, and it seems to me that when there is no fighting we could do such things so much faster. We could help with construction, or more of us could fly between cities, such as how you flew here today. The smaller dragons could even help raise the cattle, I suppose. There are always a few couriers in the coverts who do not fly out when we go to fight. It seems very wasteful to have us only patrolling, and silly too; I am sure that everyone would be very happy to work for only a little pay and freedom.”

Bonaparte eyes him a bit thoughtfully. “Construction,” he says.

Laurence hurries forward. “Your Majesty – I apologize for my lateness.”

“Oh, Laurence – I was just telling Napoleon my ideas, about how we should be paid and allowed to vote - “

“Yes, he has a good many ideas,” Bonaparte says, glancing between the Celestial and Liberté. “...Well, Captain, sit down and join me. How have you found the covert so far?”

Petty pleasantries follow. Laurence doesn't much care for the way Bonaparte keeps looking at Temeraire.

“And what did you think of Paris?” he asks the dragon at one point. “Liberté says it is his favorite city.”

“Relatively speaking,” the smaller dragon sighs. “ - They are all rather... Small.”

“Oh, Paris was very nice,” Temeraire enthuses. “The buildings w ere so lovely, and the palace especially.”

“Would you like to return?”

Laurence glances swiftly at Murat. The general is sipping easily at his tea, betraying nothing.

“I suppose that would be nice,” Temeraire says. “What do you think, Laurence?”

“I imagine our duties would preclude it,” Laurence responds.

“You have some freedom, surely – brother, are you a cruel commander?”

“Our enemies will say so,” Murat laughs.

“You will visit Paris,” Bonaparte continues. “It would be no disruption to your schedule – I would like to hear more of your ideas, Temeraire.”

The Emperor turns to Laurence: “And I feel, captain, that I do not know you well enough at all.”

Laurence bows his head stiffly and searches for a reply. “Oh, how exciting!” Temeraire cries. “Yes, let us go to Paris!”

* * *

 

Temeraire's distant form soars over the Chinese Embassy like a black sparrow as the group goes inside. From the windows Laurence can see him being watched anxiously by half a dozen guard dragons. It is no wonder; Laurence can barely believe that the Emperor would risk himself by riding away alone, even with the Celestial.

That he himself should be left behind, at the mercy of these Chinese dignitaries, seems more typical.

A translator has been tasked with bearing the brunt of the meeting. The man looks entirely unfazed by the increasingly tense faces around him, the thick heat of the opulent meeting room on the ground floor. Laurence tugs at his cravat, feeling increasingly out of place as the Chinese mutter over his head and gesture toward him.

Murat, wielding his title like a shield, interposes himself as much as possible and forces some restraint onto the discussion by sheer force of personality. It is hard for anyone to be overbearing in comparison to the veteran General. But Ambassador Lim is making a good attempt, even when Laurence can only understand every fifth word he says.

To Murat's great frustration the delegation ignores him almost entirely. They are concerned with Laurence, and Laurence only, who barely knows what France hopes to gain from these talks except a promise that China not interfere with the war. Murat keeps trying to mention the Chinese dragons, too, but Zhou Lim changes the subject whenever this point is raised.

Finally the translator turns to Laurence. “Ambassador Lim would like to congratulate you and Lung Tien Xiang on your happy partnership, and offers to recognize the occasion by sponsoring lessons in the Mandarin language and traditional Analects.”

Some message must have come from Peking, then, nominally approving the match – but Laurence cannot imagine messages moving fast enough to go there and back before a year has changed. “Thank you, Ambassador; I would be pleased to accept your offer, and if I may say so I am sure Temeraire will be delighted.”

The man speaks quickly. Laurence rather suspects he adds some more flowery phrases because the Ambassador looks grudgingly satisfied. Murat holds a patience he wouldn't expect for such formalities. Or perhaps not; he glances at Laurence. “His Majesty is expecting you at noon, by the plaza. Do not be late.” Then, yawning, he makes his bow, nods to the translator, and exits.

But before Laurence can follow: “You speak English, do you not?” asks one of the men in that language.

The translator glances between them, puzzled. Evidently his skills do not extend that far. “Yes,” Laurence responds in kind, grateful for the opportunity. “Sun Kai, I believe?”

“Yes, yes. This is much better. That man – Murat? A prince, is he?”

“Not quite yet,” says Laurence delicately.

Sun Kai raises his eyebrows.

“The Emperor gives titles to many of his family members... I believe General Murat was originally born to an inn-keeper, which only shows His Majesty's lack of prejudice. It is not impossible that he will one day have such a title.” Laurence knows perfectly well how much the Chinese have inquired into his own lineage. Sun Kai pauses to mutter something to his companions before telling Laurence, flatly, “I see.”

A splendidly garbed man asks something. “The ambassador would like to know if it is true that the Emperor was not nobility when he was crowned,” Sun Kai says.

“I believe he _was_ a noble,” Laurence is forced to admit. “His family was ennobled perhaps twenty years ago.” This is close enough to the truth, anyway.

The Chinese mutter some more. “Thank you,” Sun Kai says. “I believe the ambassador would like to retire now - “

Laurence inclines his head and makes his escape with relief.

Paris is still an unfamiliar place. In his distraction Laurence finds himself pausing in the Avenue gardens, hovering uncertainly until he makes out the obelisk of the Place de la Concord rising in the distance. Even more noticeable is the distant black wing of Temeraire jutting over the rise of several buildings. He starts toward the shape.

“That was not particularly wise,” says a voice.

The man is speaking English.

Laurence turns. It is the Eastern translator. His accent is perfect, better suited to a high court or lord's table back in London. Laurence glances around and finds no one else on the stone pathway. “You - “

“Yes, I heard you outside, Mr. _Laurence_. But I will not discuss your stupidity in the open – in here.” And without ado the stranger twists away and marches into a row of hedges. The garden is eerily quiet.

Laurence wavers, makes a decision, and then feels around in his coat for a knife. He slides it into his sleeve with hesitation. The man would appear to be a French employee, then, but perhaps he has Chinese heritage? His lapse in assuming the man spoke no English was unforgivable, but not grievous, hopefully; he said nothing truly damning. Laurence ducks into the hedges too.

A hand knocks away his arm.

“I am not stupid,” the man hisses. French now. “Nor am I your enemy, to your good fortune; my name is Tenzing Tharkay. I bear a message from the offices in England.”

“From _who?”_ Laurence presses.

'Tenzing Tharkay' ignores the question. “Napoleon has been recalling forces from the Rhine. We suspect he is mustering for an attack, but we do not know _where._ If you can determine anything, I can serve as a contact here in Paris – I will be working in the Palace. And I suspect you will find reason to be in the city,” he adds grimly. He presses something into Laurence's hands that he pockets at once.

“I should report you,” Laurence says. “If you are accusing me of something, Sir - “

“Do not be a fool,” Tharkay snaps. “If you will not accept my help, very well. I do not have time to convince you.” He jerks away and vanishes through the undergrowth.

Laurence is alone. Aware of the time he straightens his coat, waits a moment, and then casually steps back onto the path and toward his original meeting.

The Place de la Concord seems like an ignominious site to meet France's new ruler. Here is where the Revolution began, where the guillotine was erected and King Loius XVI was executed at the start of the Reign of Terror. Laurence cannot imagine any ruler walking easily over these stones, but he sees the merit of Bonaparte's suggestion as soon as the man comes into sight.

The people of France do truly love their Emperor. It's galling to be so continually reminded of this. The location is clearly a statement; Bonaparte wants to be seen, and he has spent his wait talking with a small crowd of admiring citizens in the plaza's wide paths. The foremost among them seems to be a young official from the nearby French Naval Ministry.

Temeraire, curled just behind the Emperor, is barely a restraining factor on the crowd. In this huge place even a Celestial doesn't seem so large.

“Oh,” the young officer says as Laurence approaches. “If you may spare a moment, Sire, for the vice-admiral - “

“Decrés, Decrés! I wrote two letters to Decrés yesterday, and where is my reply? Madame, what a fine child,” he tells a young lady who tugs her curious son back from Temeraire. She flushes furiously and curtseys.

“Ah, there you are at last Laurence,” Bonaparte says. Temeraire brightens. “ - Lunch?”

* * *

 

In Laurence's experience, lords tend to dine surrounded by petitioners, fellow courtiers, and amiable society; he would expect this to be doubly-true of an Emperor.

Somehow he does not expect the secluded grotto, the guards at the discreet distance ensuring privacy. He certainly does not expect the Empress Josephine.

“I have never been to America,” Josephine says. “Is it very beautiful, captain? I hear the forests are endless.”

“I lived on the sea, Your Majesty, but even so I must agree.” Laurence can hardly do anything else. He takes a drink to hide his discomfort.

“I have never seen such splendid clothes,” says Temeraire suddenly. “Why do you not dress like that, Laurence? I think it would be marvelous.” He leans down his great head to peer at the Empress' dress.

Laurence reddens. The Empress only smiles. “I do not think your good captain has quite the right figure,” she tells him. Temeraire actually bristles.

Laurence interjects before the dragon can take offense, “I have told you, dearest, that men and women dress differently? Except for the aviators I mean.”

“That seems very strange – but in any case you do look quite nice,” Temeraire tells the Empress earnestly. At the very least he can hardly fail to flatter her.

“I would hear more about your service,” Bonaparte says – not a question. “You sailed with the American navy?”

And then Laurence realizes that, of course, he is being interrogated.

Politely interrogated. But to what end? He takes another sip of wine before chiding himself; in the warm summer heat his head is already heavy. “Yes,” he says at last. “I was only the captain of a small clipper – but we had many reasons to resent the British even after the war ended. They continue to harass American shipping. A good friend of mine was pressed to service. That is why I thought to join the French navy when the last of my family passed.”

“Pressed to service?” Temeraire echoes.

So Laurence must reluctantly explain that many nations force men to man their ships, which dutifully appalls the Celestial. Laurence has never thought twice about the fact. The French do not indulge as much in the practice, but they do it just the same.

He probably shouldn't poison the French name in front of their Emperor, though.

So Laurence holds his tongue. It seems he has no need for concern, however. Bonaparte is already turning to the dragon. “You have mentioned to me many of your excellent ideas regarding the state of dragons in France. Today I was approached by a man, one of my prefects, who complained about the sight of patrols flying overhead; what is your opinion on that?”

Laurence leans back as Temeraire launches into a rant against the injustice of keeping dragons separate from society – the likelihood that fear will only increase in the face of the unknown. Josephine is watching Laurence, though, not Temeraire; he forces himself to listen closely to the Celestial's well-worn arguments.

“ - and certainly I think it both fair, and more wise, to treat dragons with the same consideration as anyone else. I understand the Revolution was meant to put all people on equal ground, but _we_ are not treated equally at all.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Bonaparte says – and there is that same worrying thoughtfulness he once showed before. Laurence shifts in his chair. Josephine seems to notice his discomfiture.

“I think support for the dragons has been increasing lately,” she says. “Our people cannot help but be grateful for your help in the war. You did excellent work just recently, did you not, in that battle two weeks ago?”

Temeraire swells. “A very small act, Your Majesty,” says Laurence.

“Yet I wonder if you are being put to your full potential, Temeraire,” Bonaparte says. The words are directed at the dragon, yet he looks directly at Laurence. “I hope you are happy at Wissant? You could be posted anywhere, with anyone - “

“Oh, I quite like my friends,” Temeraire says.

Laurence meets the Emperor's gaze. If this is a threat it is the most effective one the Emperor could make. But he cannot understand how he has displeased Bonaparte. There has been no sign from Murat that his service has been lacking and certainly no attempt has been made to distance him from Temeraire. Bonaparte must realize -

Laurence pauses. Of course Bonaparte knows that Temeraire would never leave him. “Though of course, your Majesty, we are _both_ glad to go wherever we might be directed.”

The Emperor looks pleasantly surprised. If he realizes that Laurence has comprehended his game he makes no sign. “Such enthusiasm – and all for a country not your own.”

“France takes in many foreigners.”

“Because we make them French,” Napoleon says. “That is an easy thing.”

“Where would you have us go if not here?” Laurence prods before Temeraire can speak. “Surely there no greater cause in the current war than to defend France.”

“France is making preparations,” says Napoleon, vaguely; one of the most difficult things about Laurence's work is the fact that Napoleon doesn't even like to divulge secrets to his generals. “But, no, our current work with the war is rather close to home.”

“All this talk of war, it is always talk of war,” Josephine complains.

“Only because no one will make peace with me,” Napoleon contends. “I am happy to have peace, I am always happy to offer peace on French terms. Saxony is being very reasonable,” he adds.

“Was Saxony a threat,” Laurence wonders dubiously.

“They stand between France and Prussia – along with a few other friendly little places. It is always good to make friends instead of enemies.”

Laurence thinks this is a spectacular thing to say, from a man with so many enemies himself.

“I would so love to see another country,” Temeraire sighs.

“Perhaps the war will bring you there one day. At the Tuileries we have a pair of dragons who have escorted their companions their dragons from India, if meeting them would interest you.”

Laurence hesitates – he does not want to appear overly eager to enter the palace. Temeraire says, “Oh, yes!” with such joy that he is able to add,

“Temeraire is always glad for a chance to make connections.”

“And you shall come too,” Josephine says, magnanimously, but with a touch of triumph; why they want him to feel indebted he cannot know. Laurence only bows his head, in something like consent, and agrees.

* * *

 

“You receive so many letters, Laurence – is that usual? Should I be receiving letters too?”

“My dear, you would find them hard to read,” says Laurence distractedly. He pauses to underline a sentence. Paris' papers have been making a loud noise about Captain Augustin sailing toward Denmark within the week, but Augustin writes that he goes West instead, and “with the greatest haste, that cannot be for an instant relieved”. He has not said why. Perusing the rest of the letter finds nothing useful; Laurence sets it aside to answer later and picks up a letter from Captain Comtois.

“I am certain I could read it,” says Temeraire, bending down. His huge eye hovers over Laurence. “Letters on signs and buildings are very big and I have learned a little. The top part says... _Dear Will...”_

Laurence quickly folds the parchment. “If you are so scholarly, my dear, perhaps you would prefer a book; it is awhile since we have read together.”

“Oh, I quite agree! What are we reading?”

“An essay by Robespierre,” Laurence says. “I suspect you would like the essay but not the man; think on that contradiction for awhile.”

Temeraire ends up agreeing with his assessment. “It is very strange to think that some men have great power, and other very little, or none at all. Of course I suppose it is fair to say, that if no one else writes an essay, of course there is nothing to be read; but as I _cannot_ write an essay, and have excellent ideas, that is really not quite right.”

“If you truly feel inspired I shall happily write for you, Temeraire. And any government can only do the best with what they have.”

“You must have thought France was an excellent government to have left your own country for this one,” Temeraire says. “I have heard it said that France is the best place in the world; surely that is so?”

Laurence hesitates. “It is difficult to say – certainly the Emperor is always trying to make improvements,” he hedges.

“How _did_ you decide to join the French navy?”

Laurence gives him an abbreviated version of the story. He describes a French frigate coming upon his damaged schooner and hauling him ashore. “They were most gracious,” he says, “When they saw the American flags aboard.” Then he says the words he has not dared speak to anyone but Volly and Captain James: “Of course, the flags were not mine, nor was the boat. They belonged to a passenger of my own ship who had died when we were attacked by privateers. It was only good luck that I got aboard – and very ill-luck, that the few who came with me died of their wounds.”

Laurence had been fortunate that day, but also careful. He had fled his own ship – not a schooner, but a respectable frigate - with important letters for the admiralty. The same vital letters and vital information that had inspired him to agree with the French captain's false, bewildering assumption that he was an American, in the hope that his papers could somehow reach English soil -

“I am much better than a ship – you see, I will never sink,” Temeraire says. He nudges Laurence a bit anxiously, though, as though the mere mention of the incident disturbs him. “Perhaps you should not go near the sea again; it sounds distinctly unpleasant.”

“I daresay I will have little opportunity.”

“Of course it was very good of that captain to help you,” Temeraire says.

“ - Yes.”

“I cannot imagine what would have happened if you had been found by the English.”

“As I was a neutral party I am sure they would have been fair.“

“You could have been impressed, or worse! The men say the English are barbarians. Oh, Laurence, I cannot even think of it, but I am glad that France is so wonderful.“

Laurence lurches to his feet. He realizes abruptly that the night has grown dark. “Forgive me; I must go for a walk.”

“Why must you always walk at night,” Temeraire complains. But he puts down his head and relents. “Leave the little book, please. I will try to read it, it cannot be so hard.”

Laurence leaves Temeraire poking at a book with one huge talon. The covert is quiet at night but by no means deserted. Wissant's three Fleur-de-Nuits are wide awake, their nocturnal crews rousing and sliding through the darkness with accustomed ease. Those crews wear dark uniforms to better hide their stealthy dragons, and when Laurence stumbles against someone under a shaded spot between buildings he can, perhaps, be forgiven for saying “I beg your pardon,” and trying to move on.

“Captain Laurence,” says Marshal Murat. “I hear you have been in Paris; how I miss it! How is my brother?”

“Well, Sir.” Laurence stops walking. “Surely you write?” The question seems a bit ridiculous even as he says it.

Murat only says, “On official matters, always – and more often, yes, but that is not the same. Do you know, his Majesty has written me to say that he is writing a proposition to give pay to the dragons. The Senate is even debating on the matter of draconic citizenship. It may be put to the plebiscite shortly. I daresay I do not imagine how the businesses shall manage any of this, and it will upend all our laws, but such experiments are part and parcel these days.”

“...Temeraire will be thrilled,” Laurence manages at last.

Murat snorts. “Liberté could not care less,” he says. “But the other dragons are delighted, yes. My brother is very clever with his soldiers – all of them.” And he moves away, apparently considering that the end of the conversation.

Temeraire is indeed just as delighted as Laurence could predict. It feels like there is a rope tightening over his heart, binding him ever closer to the unwanted soils of France.

* * *

 

“And then the lazy creature insisted on being hand-fed beef all chopped until he was _six months_ old – six months, I tell you. Tubs of chopped meat. It is no wonder he has grown so spoiled...”

Laurence has looked forward to sitting with Murat in the hope that he will overheard important, vital information that he might bring to England.

He has forgotten that Murat is, first and foremost, an aviator. With, it seems, something of a doting parent's tendency to talk about Liberté.

“My Fraternité is much the same,” says another captain fondly. Laurence rather hopes that there is no dragon in France named Égalité, but more likely there are three.

Laurence whiles away time until the Marshall seems ready to leave. Pre-empting the man, he rises, and Murat calls, “One moment, Captain Laurence. I have received a message for you in my official communications. It has slipped my mind.”

Laurence pauses. Waits.

Murat retrieves from his coat pocket a wrinkled letter. The seal is broken. It is dated to the day before. He looks Laurence square in the eyes and holds it out.

Laurence accepts the letter, says “Thank you, Sir,” and exits.

* * *

 

“I wonder what the Indian dragons are like? But perhaps I will not speak the language, and they may not speak French – although they could teach me their tongue perhaps.” Temeraire seems pleased at the prospect.

Laurence stares at the letter which he received from Murat. An opportunity to speak with the Emperor of France should not be wasted, but an opportunity to _help_ him must be subverted, and thus Laurence should do his best to discourage Temeraire from speaking with the Emperor.

He folds the missive carefully.

“Napoleon is so very good to speak with – and very reasonable when I point out mistakes in the Government, which is not a common thing, for some reason.”

“Yes, my dear... But I would like to say, you should perhaps be more cautious when speaking with the Emperor.”

Temeraire tilts his head. “Whatever do you mean?”

Laurence looks somewhere over the Celestial's head. His heart feels constricted. “I am afraid, dear, that despite appearances I think he was greatly aggravated by your comments on our last meeting. He tried to pretend at interest, for politeness, but the signs were quite clear.”

“...Oh.” Temeraire pretends to be nonchalant, but his wings droop a little. “...You are quite certain?” He bends down to rub his silver eagle.

“I am afraid so.”

“...I suppose he did not want to be rude,” Temeraire says lowly. Laurence averts his gaze. “...Very well, I will try to be more careful.”

And then he adds, even worse: “Thank you for telling me, Laurence.”

Perhaps it is the guilt that makes Laurence says, “Of course. But there are other people who appreciate you quite well; in fact perhaps you might accompany me tonight, very quietly, when I deliver a message down by the coast.”

“What sort of message?” Temeraire asks.

“Perhaps I may explain later,” Laurence lies. “But I am meeting with a dragon and a captain who are good friends. Only please keep it a secret until tonight.”

Clearly intrigued, Temeraire agrees. They set out at dusk without issue. It is no strange thing for dragons to become restless and fly, and in the dark Temeraire could even be mistaken for a Fleur-de-Nuit, the only other black breed in the country.

When they land at the usual meeting place there is no sign of Volly or James. “We must be early,” he tells Temeraire. “I do not - “

“Good lord,” a voice hisses. “Do you want us caught?”

Startled, Laurence turns. “Captain Rankin!”

“Yes,” says the man. “Unfortunately James could not make the trip tonight – so I was saddled with it, instead. Although now I think it perfectly possible that he left off deliberately, if you are every night charging in with a _heavy-weight_ while we try and be discreet.”

“That is – a new development.” Laurence glances at Temeraire, who is beginning to look indignant. “Where is Levitas?”

“Back further down the coast. He cannot keep quiet and I did not want to be caught.”

Laurence frowns. “Temeraire, would you care to join him? Identify yourself first, please.”

“But Laurence, this man seems very angry - “

“I will be quite safe,” Laurence intervenes. “And Levitas is only a courier.”

“...Very well,” says Temeraire after a moment. He eyes Rankin suspiciously before he goes.

Laurence has only met with Rankin on three occasions. First wary because of James' grimaces about this 'temporary contact', he has not found himself enamored of the man since. Aside from the man's general pompousness he has gathered that Rankin is harsh with Levitas – a cardinal sin among aviators.

“Well,” says Rankin. “You should have some news by now.”

So Laurence launches into his findings – brief news, and somewhat more vague than he likes – and then Rankin asks his own questions, including, “What is this ridiculous talk about dragon-related reforms I've been hearing? Should the Corps be concerned?”

Laurence glances down the beach. He does not know how to tell Rankin that many of Napoleon's extravagant new ideas are coming from Temeraire. “I believe the dragons are soon to be considered for pay and equal rights,” he says. “Napoleon is also considering certain building projects to aid their access to the cities.”

Rankin stares. Then he snorts. “How the devil are we still fighting a war with that madman – equal rights!” He shakes his head, apparently dropping the subject. “I think that is all. I hope you do better next week,” he adds. “Talk to Murat, won't you?”

Levitas and Temeraire are sitting by the shore. Levitas raises his head hopefully when Rankin appears, but the captain grabs his dragons reins and jumps on his back without once looking at the creature's face. He nods farewell, kicks the courier's sides like a horse, and then they're rising swiftly over the dark waters of the Channel.

Of course this is not the end of it:

“Levitas seemed very nice, though a little sad,” says Temeraire slowly. “But I do not think those were your friends... why could I not talk to Captain Rankin, Laurence?”

Laurence hesitates. But he must ensure that Temeraire does not speak of this day, does not let anything slip.

And, also, perhaps this is one way to begin introducing Temeraire to the truth.

“I have friends in England,” he says. Temeraire's ruff flares with shock. “And family, though we... no longer speak. Captain Rankin has been kind enough to take on my messages, and it is imperative, Temeraire, that no one knows of this. Not Napoleon, not Murat, not even Lumiere. If they know, if they hear even a whisper, I will be guillotined; do you understand that?”

“Oh, Laurence!” Temeraire cries. “Our friends would never kill you - “

“They assuredly would.”

“Then you must quit talking to these English people at once. It is far too dangerous.”

“I do not have that liberty,” Laurence says. “Please, Temeraire, may I count on your silence? If you refuse to be complicit I understand entirely.”

Temeraire droops slowly. “Of course I will say nothing, Laurence; oh, but it is dreadful.” He twists his head down and begins to rub unconsciously against the silver eagle on his chest; Laurence looks away. “...Levitas did not seem terrible, even if he was English.”

“No,” Laurence agrees, relieved. “Thank you, my dear. I cannot express - “

“I am sure,” says Temeraire sadly. “...May we return to Wissant, Laurence?”

“...Yes. Of course.”

* * *

 

When they travel to Paris several days later Temeraire is still in low spirits that nothing will seem to dispel. Even the sight of two Indian dragons lounging by the Tuileries – both wearing bright diplomatic sashes – fails to rouse his interest. He lets Laurence down with a faint sigh

Laurence has been here once before, of course, for official purposes. He takes out his invitation like a shield and eyes the building. Officials are milling around. They have arrived in good time, so he might be able to manufacture a run-in with some of the palace staff -

“Captain, you are early,” a voice calls. Empress Josephine steps around the other side of Temeraire, utterly fearless. “It seems we must waste even more of your time.”

That does not bode well. “Your Majesty?”

“I am afraid that there has been a bit of a mishap,” she says delicately. “The Chinese delegation has been called away; a problem with one of their ships, perhaps.”

“Oh, surely we must not fly straight back,” Temeraire sighs.

“I can occupy myself well, dear; enjoy your talk with the guests.”

“Yes, yes, I would not have it,” Josephine assures. “In fact that is why I have come; since you have found yourself free, Captain, I wondered if you would do me the good favor of attending the theatre this evening.”

Laurence pauses perhaps too long. The invitation is frivolous; he can feel the evening's potential slipping away. Josephine will have nothing for him and reveal no information that she might possess. She notices his hesitation with a faint curve of her lips. “What, Captain? You act like I propose something indecent.”

Laurence flushes. But of course it is unthinkable to refuse her. “I would be honored, Your Majesty.”

The destination is the Comédie-Française, a state theatre. “Are we seeing a comedy, then,” he asks as they depart from Temeraire. A carriage is already waiting. He somehow has not expected less.

“No, no. They perform comedies and tragedies both. The two go hand in hand, I find. So does success, and sorrow...”

“Deceit,” Laurence says automatically. And then winces again. “A common component in humor and tragedy, I should think.”

“Deceit is splendidly amusing, even in a tragedy. You see, the audience wonders when everything will be revealed, when everything falls apart - it is a great piece of fun.”

Laurence tugs his neckcloth.

“But enough of this,” she says. They pull up in front of the pillared building. “You're very astute, Captain – I lied after all. We are seeing a comedy, I think. Hasn't there been enough suffering of late?”

* * *

 

“Laurence,” says Temeraire quietly. “Perhaps we might go for a flight.”

“I am sorry, dear, it is somewhat late - “

“Yes,” Temeraire responds. “But we have secret things to discuss, I think. And you always insist we should discuss secrets outside the covert.”

Laurence glances around quickly. No one seems to have overheard this comment. “Very well,” he agrees. He grabs a set of carabiners and in moments they're in the air.

Temeraire quivers with energy until they're high over the sea. He slows to almost a glide, twisting his neck around to face Laurence. His next words have a chilling affect: “I have been thinking about Levitas. And Captain Rankin.”

Laurence keeps his voice even. “Levitas seemed like a nice creature.”

“He was perfectly fine,” says Temeraire impatiently. “But they were English, Laurence. Laurence, I asked those Indian dragons what kind of things a _spy_ might do, and they have told me all about their experiences. They say they have met spies. Dreadful men who give away information to other countries, and betray their own people, and are killed for it - “

“It is not my country,” Laurence says, and then falls silent.

Stupid. But he cannot lie; he has done many ignoble things for his country, but to lie to Temeraire, when the question is being so plainly asked, is a cruelty. Temeraire pauses.

“But spies are killed,” he says after a moment, very small. “Because they are horrible.”

“Yes,” Laurence says. And he repeats: “This is not my country, and I am not a Frenchman, Temeraire – it has never been my goal to help the French.”

“But we fight for them, so who _are_ we meant to be helping?” Temeraire asks. “Napoleon and Murat and Empress Josephine, they are all our friends – will you have us fight Gustav and Lumiere one day? I do not understand, Laurence. I cannot do it.”

“My dear - “

“Surely you might stop, Laurence.”

“I am loyal to England,” he says with difficulty. “And if my position was revealed to the Emperor, I assure you he _would_ kill me.”

Temeraire stiffens. “But he cares about you! - Oh, Laurence, but why would you do this,” he asks wretchedly.

“Temeraire, I am sorry.”

“You have said that before – that you are _sorry._ I do not think you are, sometimes, and other times I do not think it matters if you continue to do dreadful things anyway.”

“Will you tell – anyone.”

“No,” Temeraire says. And then he says, very quietly, “But I do not think I can help you, either.”

* * *

 

They return in silence after that; Laurence finds himself walking through the covert without purpose, but he feigns such distractions often enough that no one gives him a second glance. But if a passing ensign were to declare, “Isn't it grand that we are to attack all of Portugal tomorrow?” Laurence doubts he would have heard.

He is found, somehow, by Murat.

“Ah, good Captain! I did not think Temeraire was nocturnal – perhaps you are?” the man suggests. “I was sending for you earlier, Laurence, but your runners said you were absent. I did not know you had returned from your visit with the Chinese.”

“There was no visit – which is just as well,” Laurence says. “I cannot say that the last was very successful.”

“It must have come to some good end! My dear brother stopped asking for reports on you after that business.” Laurence cannot even muster surprise. “In any case the news is not precisely important. I had meant to send you on to Dunkirk, with half our formation, but Lumiere went instead. Accendare will be accompanying us tomorrow, though I do not expect trouble.”

Laurence nods. But, “Half our formation gone, Sir? And why Dunkirk?” he prompts, fully expecting the man will refuse to tell him.

But Murat surprises him by saying, “Several navy ships thereabouts will be making preparations, so we are keeping an eye on matters. Any ships nearby need to get well chased off. We will stay close to shore here, as well. But we are sending most of the dragons on to Calais.”

Laurence is intrigued. Ships depart for the war all the time without such arrangements being necessary. “Sir, I have many contacts in the navy. None have mentioned any upcoming plans.”

“Most do not know it themselves! They have been ordered back separately, you understand.” Murat lifts his chin, pleased to deliver such interesting news. “The Emperor wants the attack to be quiet – but some of the Chinese have an inkling of what's coming. And I am sure he would not mind you knowing... Yes,” he decides. “There will be a meeting in one week, in the palace, to finalize the plans. I think you would enjoy it; you have not attended to such matters with the Armée de l'Air, is that so?”

“You are talking about an attack,” says Laurence. “A planned assault, to...?”

“If you cannot imagine the where, or the why, perhaps we do not want you at such a meeting after all,” Murat laughs. He claps Laurence on the back. “One week! You will have to join me.” With that he strides away, leaving Laurence with two new conflicts and no answers.

* * *

 

The other Papillon Noir and two Garde-de-Lyons remain with the formation. With Liberté and Temeraire they are five in total, which is not, Laurence thinks, a poor number. They weave in widening spirals further away from the shore, twisting back and spreading to keep a careful watch over the sky.

“Sir,” says Lieutenant Tremble near noon. Laurence has already spotted the signal. “Six wings.”

They have no recourse today but a frontal attack; the protection of the shore is most important, and the English cannot be allowed too close. Laurence is entirely unsurprised when Liberté's signal-ensign waves them forward.

Their formation has been hastily assembled today into an awkward new shape. Liberté and the second Papillion lead at the front. Behind the two Garde-de-Lyons rush up now, ready to surprise the English with their speed after the middle-weights make a pass. Temeraire is the sole heavyweight. At the end of the formation he will be responsible for tearing at anyone who harasses his companions and bulldozing through the rest. His speed, which still always surprises the British, is a great advantage here.

The British Longwing ploughs into their frontal dragons with brute disregard, barely bothering to swipe with her claws. She doesn't even use her acid. Liberté rakes her side while diving away, but the other Papillon seems more stunned. One of the Garde-de-Lyons startles the creature by diving at her head while another continues to flutter after the middle-weights, exhaustedly swinging from one enemy to another with glancing scratches.

Temeraire tears into the Longwing head-on, tumbles through air with a roar, and promptly detaches to flutter backwards as a huge Regal Copper dives down at his head. The two largest dragons seemed to have claimed him, and the Longwing circles back to spit at his face while Temeraire gains his bearings.

The Celestial drops out of the way. Laurence spares a moment to be glad for their training with Lumiere. But the escape seems to enrage the other dragon. Seeing a chance, Laurence calls, “Ready, riflemen!”

The Longwing lunges down with her full weight, belly-first.

“Fire!”

Temeraire slips sideways at the last instant as the Longwing falls, roaring her pain. But for an instant he ignores the Regal Copper.

Laurence is the one to notice the two Papillons struggling in the air, a mammoth shape clinging to Marshal Murat's own dragon. He makes a rapid calculation. “Temeraire, help Liberté!” And of course the Celestial does.

Temeraire lunges into the Regal Copper, but his smaller weight is no match. The red and orange dragon twists away, seeking the greater prize of the Marshal. Liberté is flagging badly. Temeraire clutches the larger dragon by the wings, twisting his talons under the delicate joints, and the Copper roars.

They fall pinned together, spinning helplessly, while Temeraire writhes and Laurence shouts for the Riflemen. He stumbles clutching the harness, wind streaming past his hair, and with a glance notices blurred figures dropping down onto Temeraire's back.

The Regal Copper finally pushes away. Temeraire rights himself hurriedly.

“Stay back!” Laurence calls. “Temeraire, we are boarded!”

Temeraire jerks to a halt mid-air.

Gunfire cracks open on his back; like crackling wood the sound of fighting spreads closer to Laurence in rapid shots. He pulls out his own pistol and stands up.

Temeraire twists rapidly and two English aviators, shouting, fall before they can latch onto his harness properly. Laurence swings his head around to watch their descent, raising his gun toward a nearby enemy. He does not fire. Of course.

One of his midwingmen has come to stand by Laurence. He catches a glimpse of Lieutenant Tremble behind the wings, her sword flashing in the air. For a moment Laurence feels oddly bitter. He grips the gun harder.

“Sir,” gasps the midwingman sharply, and Laurence finds him grasping a bullet-wound on his shoulder. “Stay behind - “

An English lieutenant leaps forward and withdraws his own sword, slamming into the midwingman. Cornett. That was his name. Laurence shoots, misses deliberately, and watches his officer fall under an English sword that he could have stopped.

The lieutenant turns to him. Laurence holsters the pistol and pulls out his own sword.

This, whatever his loyalties, is not a fight he can risk losing.

Temeraire cries his name while they fight. The lieutenant is shorter but he has a strong arm, and he slashes with fierce, desperate abandon, clearly tasting victory. Laurence only steps back once, stumbling at the edge of Temeraire's neck, and the man leaps forward

The sword bites his shoulder and peels away. Laurence stumbles, hits his knee against hard harness straps, and pushes himself back up in the same movement. His feet are tangled in leather. He stabs at the lieutenant's knees and the man barely blocks him.

In one motion Laurence reaches down and unclips his carabiners. He jumps to the side and slashes at the lieutenant with his sword; the stranger swears and leans back. “Steady!” Laurence calls, stumbling. He has gained some liberty of movement but Temeraire is flying in a jolting, anxious way. Then another aviator pulls up next to the lieutenant, pulling along his own carabiner, and Laurence raises his sword again. He steps back near Temeraire's shoulder as the two advance.

The two close in. “Surrender, damn you,” the lieutenant shouts.

Laurence looks between them. With his left hand he grasps for his useless pistol. They will try not to kill him; that doesn't matter, he thinks wildly. To let the enemy get Temeraire -

There is one chance. He sees the realization in the lieutenant's eyes just as he starts to turn. “No!”

“Temeraire!” Laurence shouts, and he jumps.

Temeraire's cry echoes in his ears. Falling is vastly different than flying – the wind presses back against him like an oppressive force, dragging his limbs toward the sky and simultaneously wrapping him insensate. A rush of wings nearby makes Laurence prepare to call out. He regrets the action. He can't find enough air to breathe.

As he falls, he realizes: England. The lieutenant, the enemy he was fighting – they are from England. Why would he jump to his death to get away from - ?

Temeraire lurches for him and Laurence feels bone-deep relief; but then the black talons close, snatch, _miss._ Laurence spirals wildly through the air. Then with a lurch his halt stops, unexpectedly, and he gasps for breath.

A blue dragon peers down at him with interest. “Oh, excellent,” says the creature. “Warren, it is a captain!”

Somewhere in the distance Temeraire roars.

* * *

 

“Not firm in the air, these Frenchies,” comments the First Lieutenant who had fought him from Temeraire's neck. Laurence, who has just been carried in a light-weight's clenched grip for over an hour, feels this is rather unprovoked. He adjusts his collar stiffly – still trying to will the world to stop spinning – while in the distance Temeraire protests loudly.

“I do not care at all how big you are, I will certainly shout and blow apart your eyes if you do not let Laurence go,” he tells the Regal Copper. He has not actually managed the famed Divine Wind yet, so this is a lie; anyway the Regal Copper looks fantastically dubious.

Lieutenant Tremble seems well enough. She is standing, visible a half-mile distant with the rest of his crew under the watchful eye of a Grey Copper. Temeraire sits alone under the careful examination of the larger Regal Copper he nearly maimed. Two more Yellow Reapers spin in the air, but in his eyes it is clear that the real threat is a Pascal Blue still hunched over Laurence.

“Let's not taunt the enemy, Lieutenant Granby,” says the captain of the that very dragon. “Is Lily well?”

“Oh, I think it was actually a superficial thing – you know how young dragons carry on, though, and the poor thing has never been hit like that before. Put Harcourt in a scare too, right over the chest.” Granby glances in the direction of Temeraire. “I was about to go back to Maximus, but that big black fellow might just step on me, I think.”

The captain winces. “I wouldn't recommend it. I'll send a runner to Berkley to explain. In the meantime, do we have anyone who speaks French?” He tilts his head toward Laurence, who realizes with some indignation that they assume he understands nothing of the conversation.

It might be useful to continue that facade, but under the circumstances he cannot imagine any benefit. He has no wish to spy on the English, and moreover... “I beg your pardon,” he says, startling them. Laurence resigns himself to what must be done. “I understand you perfectly well. What is our destination, may I ask?”

The two eye him. “What is your name?” The captain demands.

“William Laurence, of Temeraire.”

“I'm Captain Warren.” Warren glances at Granby, who promptly lopes off in the direction of the injured Longwing whose gushing chest-wound merited this stop on the beach. “We will make a stop at Dover in an hour or two, and then it is to Loch Laggan with you.”

“Loch Laggan!” Laurence exclaims.

“Dover would be _better,_ ” says Warren. “But I suppose there is too much chance of escape - “

“I can go to neither.”

“Oh, Loch Laggan it is then!” snaps a high voice. A blood spattered woman stomps into view.

“Captain Harcourt,” Warren defers.

Laurence takes a breath. “Are you in charge here, Madam?”

“You may call me _Captain,”_ she says haughtily. Her tone is belied by a rather obvious state of nerves. Harcourt lifts her chin a bit uncertainly. “And, yes.”

“Then I would ask to speak to you in private.”

“You have nothing to say to me that cannot be said openly.”

Damn their grand gestures to hell. It will not be on Laurence if this farce gets back to the Alien Office. “Very well,” he says flatly. “You should be aware that I am an English spy.”

Finally he gets a reaction. Warren startles visibly and Harcourt's bravery visibly falters. “...You're what?” she asks.

“As you saw, Temeraire and I have lately been posted to Marshal Murat's formation – and normally I would be quite content to fly around England for a few days until the admirals could manufacture my escape, but there is no time. I am to attend a meeting tomorrow night that will provide vital intelligence.”

“And why should we believe this?” Harcourt accuses. “You stopped us from capturing Murat – from capturing a Marshal – if you were a spy you would not have done that.”

“It is only Murat's patronage that assures my attendance at the meeting tomorrow, and it is critical that I attend. He has hinted at an attack in the works. I believe Bonaparte means to invade England.”

They both go quiet.

“Is there anyone who can vouch for you,” Warren asks at last. “Anyone at all - “

Laurence hesitates. Weighs the risks; the aviators are a notoriously hard branch to infiltrate, but it is not impossible. Any one of these captains could be another informant. “Captain James, of Volatilus,” he says reluctantly. “He is who I meet.”

“James should be close by,” Harcourt says. She glances to the side. “Warren - “

“I will check,” he says, and hurries away without ceremony.

“We will see if your word holds,” Harcourt warns.

Laurence waits near the Longwing, surrounded needlessly by guards while the obliging dragon makes a spectacle of her wound. After an hour the two Reapers land to cover her from view, hunching over as though the heavyweight is on her death-bed. Whenever Laurence looks Temeraire is watching him anxiously; the deception makes his gut clench. Warren should not be long, Harcourt tells him. All of this is a useless charade.

Volly flies in after several hours, takes one look at Laurence, and says, “Oh no. An enemy.”

James doesn't look much more innocent himself. The guilt on his face is evident and he's very determinedly looking at anyone but Laurence. “What is this about, then?” he asks Captain Harcourt.

“This man says he's a spy and that you can vouch for him.”

James slumps immediately. “Oh!” he says. “Yes, I take Captain Laurence's reports – but why would you tell them that?” he turns to Laurence with dismay.

“I daresay that if I had shown up at the covert someone would have thought _you_ for a traitor if that was your attempt at subtlety,” Laurence says mildly. He doesn't quite want to censure, but James' lack of acting ability may be a very real liability. The man flushes at the ears. “More importantly I must return to France immediately and without arousing suspicion. You may report that I have reason to believe there will be an invasion. I hope tremendously that you can arrange to visit our usual place in three days time – by then I should possess more details.”

“An invasion,” James echoes. He has gone pale. “I suppose you are certain?”

“Not yet. But the rumors come from sources that would know.”

“When - ?”

Laurence glances at the other Captains. James straightens. “Yes,” he says. “Three days. I will be there.”

“Thank you. And, Captain Harcourt - “

“Yes, we will get you away. But _how_ is the real question.”

Lily gives another loud wail. “I believe I may have an idea for that,” Laurence tells her wryly.

* * *

 

“Oh, Laurence, have they hurt you? I knew the English were terrible - “

Volly stares up at Temeraire with wide eyes. “I am Volly!”

“I am going to kill you,” Temeraire tells him earnestly.

Laurence coughs hurriedly. The courier only blinks and clutches Laurence tighter. The act is more of a reflex than the threat it seems, but is clear that he could tear Laurence apart before the Celestial might snatch his captain. “My dear,” Laurence continues hurriedly, “I have excellent news. The crew has agreed to let Lieutenant Tremble and the crew go with you to France.”

Temeraire looks at him narrowly. “That _is_ very good. But what about you, Laurence?”

Laurence does not look him in the eye. “You know I have friends in this country, and I attempted to advocate on our behalf. The fact of the matter is, I was not believed, and in short – well, I am to be hanged, Temeraire.”

Never before has Laurence truly believed the Chinese legends about the Divine Wind. But the roar that Temeraire releases into the sky makes his bones rattle. “They cannot!” the dragon cries. Volly practically wraps himself around Laurence as his ears ring with aftershocks. “Why would they - “

“They have decided I was lying, and that by my attempts to make peace I am clearly a French spy. I am afraid there is nothing to be done, Temeraire. They will not risk taking you to the breeding grounds, for which I am glad. They know you would not abide it peacefully.”

“I should think not! I will kill them all – they will not harm you, they will _not - “_

“Bye-bye,” Volly mutters.

Temeraire stares, outraged. In the distance Lily raises into the sky with Maximus' support. “Wait,” the Celestial realizes. “Where are they going?”

“To Dover, I suppose – the Longwing is badly injured.”

Temeraire thrashes his tail. Looks at Volly narrowly. “Oh.”

“I beg you to go with the lieutenant peaceably, Temeraire; it will be the best thing for you. For all of you.”

Temeraire slowly sinks to the ground. “Of course I will,” he says flatly. “Ought I take her as my new captain?”

Laurence winces against the dragon's sarcasm. “As you like, dear. Know that you are always in my heart.”

Temeraire watches him stonily, uncharacteristically silent as they walk away.

The preparations start at once. A messenger is sent to Tremble and Temeraire's crew begins making preparations to move from half a mile down the beach. The Yellow Reapers Immortalis and Messoria stretch out lazily beside Temeraire now that Volly has released Laurence, who walks again under the gaze of Nitidus. Volly and James leave for Dover. Laurence waits until they have vanished into the distance before pacing in front of Nitidus' claws, getting a little further away each time.

“Get back here,” a lieutenant tells him only once. Warren shushes the man.

Temeraire bulldozes through his watch of Reapers as though they're made of straw. It's astonishing to see his speed – he half-slithers over the sand, wings flapping, claws pulling along the dirt as he lunges toward the solitary Pascal Blue and its prize. Nitidus squawks in alarm and barely pulls into the air in time to get away, only just snatching Warren as he goes. Other members of the light-weight's crew scatter on the ground as Temeraire heaves up and cups his talons around Laurence.

Then the Celestial tears toward the French captives, which wasn't in the plan. The Grey Copper Dulcia shows good sense in fleeing when he arrives. Crew members cluster onto his sides, grabbing harness-straps with bare hands or looping arms through thin lines of leather, and Temeraire bounds out again over the wide waters dividing them from France.

Laurence looks back on England as they leave. It is the first time he has been home in nine years.

* * *

 

“I am perfectly well,” says Laurence for the eighth time. Temeraire will not let him leave the clearing so Murat has been obliged to make a special visit for his report. “I am only sorry that so many of our crew were left behind.”

“I am only glad you and Temeraire were not! What fools, to have taken away both of their heavyweights! But that is the English for you.”

Laurence feels compelled to say, “I believe the Longwing took an ill-turn.”

Murat waves his hand. “Well, it is our victory. We will have to relay the full thing to my brother tomorrow. I owe you dearly, Captain Laurence. Liberté was badly hurt yesterday; I fear we would have been captured if not for your intervention. Temeraire, would you be so kind as to carry us both to Paris in the morning?”

“Yes,” says the dragon with a dark eye toward the Channel.

“Excellent! Then I shall expect you both.”

Temeraire waits until they are alone, his forearms still trapping Laurence in place, before he lowers his huge head. “Laurence,” he whispers. “Did you lie to me?”

Laurence clenched a hand against his coat. “I do not know what you mean, my dear.”

“Yes you do. With the English... did we really escape, or did they want us to leave because you are a friend? It was so easy...”

“My dear, I have been forced to deceive you in many ways, and for that I will always be sorry; but when my life is in danger I could not be so cruel as to lie to you about it.”

Temeraire sighs. “Oh, I knew it could not be so! I am glad you are well, Laurence. And I hope you know better, now, than to help anyone but Napoleon and the French. Those people seemed very unfriendly anyway.”

Laurence touches his forearm. “It will be a long morning,” he says quietly. “ - Sleep before we go on to Paris.”

Temeraire lays down his head, shifting easily, and Laurence looks up at the sky. Clouds cover the moon.

* * *

 

“Their courier is dying as they speak with the wrong information,” Napoleon pronounces. “Information dearly-cost is best believed; you see they will send all their forces North, and never suspect us.”

Laurence aches for Levitas, wondering if this intelligence can be true. It is at least not difficult to believe that Captain Rankin would lose the life of his dragon so carelessly, and by the description he is sure of that man's identity.

“I understand the need for artillery among the first loads, but what of defense?” someone asks. “Our men will be vulnerable on the beaches. Can the dragons drop anything to barricade their sides?”

The little war-council is not what Laurence quite expected, if he expected anything; a few aides-de-camp, Marshals Murat and Lannes, and a strange General he doesn't recognize. Napoleon is keeping the invasion close to chest. He marvels briefly that a casual invitation from Murat merited his inclusion.

Now the Emperor gestures at a large map spread over the center table. A detailed map of Britain sprawls across the surface.

“The transports themselves may act to defend the men, if they need it; I do not think they will. And we want our troops flexible. They will get onto the soil at once, establish themselves, and press forward. We must have surprise. Everything hinges on surprise.”

Everyone else demurs, but Napoleon glances around with a quick, sharp air as though expecting defiance. His motions are quick and electric. He flicks two tiny wooden cannons from the French side of the map to the English Coast, aiming them threateningly in the direction of London.

“What is your opinion, Laurence?” he asks suddenly.

“Me, Sire?” Laurence falters.

“I could use a second view.” Napoleon's tone makes it more of an order than a request, however civil the words.

Laurence thinks desperately. “I would not presume to contribute to the land preparations, Sire. But to my understanding, the dragons will have light crews only to keep their weight down while carrying the transports. If it can be managed I would suggest putting their remaining crews in the transports, to be released and perhaps picked up when the dragons begin to provide cover...”

“Sensible,” Murat says. “Our numbers are too great and we are likely to get boarded with no one atop the dragons.”

“Only if they know we are coming,” Napoleon reprimands quickly. But he agrees to the suggestion.

There are few more details to decide. Napoleon scribbles a few orders and gives them to the aides, then hands one to Murat. “Stay a moment, Laurence – I would speak with you.”

“I will steal a palace dragon back to the covert, shall I?” asks Murat rhetorically. The generals trickle from the war-room.

But before Napoleon can speak another man enters.

Napoleon flares. “Were you listening at the door, you sneak,” he accuses with less rancor then the accusation would suggest. Laurence eyes the newcomer with some alarm – an older gentlemen with a fine mint-green coat and silk stockings. A golden cane dips from his hand, clacking against the floor with every step, and the man smiles wryly.

“I am here only for your charming company, Sire - and to deliver a final message from the Chinese embassy.” At this the man glances to Laurence. “I should also add, Sire, that if your plans this week are successful, your choice of a successor to the English crown is...”

“Thank you,” Napoleon interrupts. “But that is the business of my family only.”

“And not at all the concern of your Ministry, or even England, I suppose.”

Laurence realizes, finally, that the man in front of him is Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, head of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He worked under both Louis XVI and the French Directory before Napoleon's coup d'etat. English caricatures are not quite the same as seeing the man in real life, Laurence reflects ruefully.

“Anyway I am not sure I would take your suggestion,” Napoleon adds, “Though I would like to hear it anyway.”

“The Emperor suspects me because he is discerning,” Talleyrand tells Laurence. “He uses me because he is equally discerning. I have survived through many regimes and I will live through many more, Captain, because I give my loyalty quite well. You see our great Emperor becomes paranoid; if I sold secrets to everyone who came asking I would be very rich, and very dead.”

“Listen to the snake when he speaks,” Napoleon says. “He may make you sin, but you will learn something. Though do not talk of more regimes, Talleyrand – there will be no more regimes. France has the House of Bonaparte and no one else.”

“Of course, Sire,” Talleyrand murmurs dutifully. “I will leave my suggestions on your desk tomorrow, shall I?”

“Yes, Yes.”

Eyeing Napoleon, Talleyrand gives a half-bow and leaves the pair alone.

“You see, I am surrounded – never a moment alone!” Napoleon says. He spins suddenly pacing to the other end of the room with quick strides. “But this war! Finally a success, a real success. England will fall, they must fall – they do not have the dragons to stop us. Five days from now and it will begin, and France will never be afraid again - “

“France is not afraid now,” Laurence says.

“No, no of course not. But England rules the ocean, and no one should rule the ocean. Except perhaps, one day - “ Napoleon waves a hand vaguely, stepping beside Laurence. “Well! I suppose we will capture a great many ships when we take that nation to its knees.”

Laurence says nothing.

“You are quiet.”

“What did you wish to discuss, Sire?”

“Nothing of import – nothing of the war, if you will ignore my tangent.” At once disputing his own words, he adds, “But to think that in a week France will have mastery of the sea - !”

“If the plan works,” Laurence says. The Emperor gestures fervently and leans in.

“Of course it will, why should it not? You will see. You have fought with the navy before, I suppose; you will see a proper battle now. I will be glad to have you there! There are too few good men, and fewer who are pleasant company.”

Laurence is uncertain how to respond.

“Of course you never come to Paris, which is annoying. I have tried to encourage you; my wife has tried; I would think you are blind, which must be an Americanism, or something willing. Are you ignoring us?”

“I do not think that anyone could,” Laurence says honestly. “And, Sire, I confess I am confused.”

“Ha! That is plain.” Another step closer. Too close; the room is not large anyway, and Laurence is suddenly, terribly aware of the hour, the strange quiet around the room, and _nothing of the war._ “Do not tell me,” Napoleon adds, with a trace of amusement, “That the navy was quite that different - “

“Sire.” Laurence backs away and clears his throat quickly. “I am afraid Temeraire will wonder where I am; I really should return.”

It is an atrocious broach of protocol. Though disappointed, the man just waves him on. “Yes, yes,” he says, and Laurence flees.

The guards immediately outside do not even twitch when he rushes out the doors. In the late night the Tuileries is quiet but by no means deserted. But halfway to the entrance a familiar face jolts Laurence from his rush.

“Mr. Tharkay,” he blurts.

A knife snaps to his throat immediately. Laurence lashes out by pure reflex and catches Tharkay a glancing blow across the shoulder before he's hauled into an empty room immediately to their left. Empty tables and dusty bookshelves cover the dull space.

“How you are alive I will never understand,” Tharkay snaps.

“I have a message,” Laurence says stiffly. The blade nudges against his throat.

“A message, _Captain Laurence,_ that could not be delivered more discreetly?” Tharkay asks. “I hate saying your name. You could have picked something less – English.”

Laurence does not bother to correct the man's assumption. “I possess no time for codes or careful arrangements, Mr. Tharkay. If you are truly a man of the king I have a message you must bear tonight. I will not get away without notice after tonight. I am unfortunately certain of that.”

“Well, I am no man of any king – but I suppose England is better than my other prospects presently,” Tharkay says. “If that is enough for you, give me the message.”

Laurence inhales slowly. It is not enough – by far – but he has little choice. “There will be an attack – an invasion. It will happen at Dover in five nights. I can give you a location, a place to meet my courier to London. He is waiting...”

“I know the place,” Tharkay interrupts. “How will it happen?”

He relays the facts. Tharkay looks disgusted. “You trust too quickly,” he says. Laurence stiffens. “I will bring this to Captain James,” he adds. “But, still. You trust too quickly.”

“If you are an ally after all, I believe I have trusted you precisely the right amount,” Laurence says.

At that Tharkay offers a wry smile and removes the knife. “Good luck, Captain,” he says grimly.

* * *

 

Napoleon is in the transport.

This was not mentioned at the meeting.

“I hope I do not drop it,” Temeraire mutters as he inspects the poles extending out from the awkward carrier. A few soldiers filing into the transport hear this comment and shoot him looks of alarm.

The transports carried by each group of four dragons are entirely hollow, built solely with the purpose of carrying men and supplies over the sea. They have no support, no defenses, no comforts; they will probably not float. This, the transport with a Marshal's flag over the top, is the eighth. Each carries approximately two-thousand. Fourteen-thousand men will be preceding Napoleon onto English soil. Twenty-eight dragons. Laurence wonders if it can be enough to save him.

They leave in the morning.

Dover should be nearly abandoned, Napoleon has told them. The site of a covert seems like an odd place to launch an invasion, but the Strait of Dover, the stretch of water between England and Wissant, is one of the smallest gaps between the two nations. The dragons cannot bear their loads over huge distances, and certainly not without being noticed.

Most dragons cannot hover or fly in short bounds like Temeraire so they have devised a technique specifically used for latching onto the transports. The dragons fly in double rows and sweep out over the hulks of wood – a hundred and more of them, three-fourths of the dragons of France and several of their allies – and then sweep down to grab the poles between their talons on the upswing. The transports rise with lurches and cries, and then they're moving.

Temeraire and Liberté hold the Emperor's transport in the front. Two Flamme-de-Gloires, Accendare and an aged veteran they don't recognize, take the rear. Temeraire has already complained again about his usual yellow paint. Several transports ahead Lumiere bobs slightly out of pace with the caravan.

“They have noticed us,” Temeraire says. “It took a long time – oh, Laurence!”

A cry goes up as dragons swarm out of Dover covert. Tiny blotches rise one after another – swarming red and gold Regal Coppers, a dozen huge spotted Longwings, a veritable flock of Yellow Reapers. The caravan lurches to a pause in the middle of the ocean. Creaking transports bob mid-air while a small courier launches into the Emperor's transport. He nearly spins back out seconds later.

“Keep going!” he cries. “Keep flying!”

The dragons surge forward.

The flight turns desperate. They have mobile dragons, of course – but not enough, nothing like enough dragons for what seems to be the entirety of the Aerial Corps. “Laurence, we must turn back!” Temeraire says anxiously. “The Emperor - “

“Obey your orders,” Laurence says. “Watch Liberté.”

Temeraire turns his head anxiously. The placid Papillon is flying forward without any sign of concern. Temeraire looks back ahead and keeps flying.

The first transport falls within seconds.

Two Regal Coppers tear through the swarm of middle-weights and light-weights defending the transports and land their full weight on the fragile wood, ripping the poles from their bearers. Shots fire. The Coppers rise moments later, barely wounded, while the transport falls and falls. A horrible crash sounds seconds later.

Liberté's signal-ensigns are flashing for the defenders to _attack the Longwings!_ But one of England's prized acid-spitters breaks through, in less than a minute, and starts spraying a defenseless Petit Chevalier clutching the front of a transport. The dragon shrieks and releases her burden, twisting as acid eats away her skull. The other three dragons carry the lopsided carrier a few more seconds before six yellow Reapers start to descend on the remaining Chevalier in the front. She dives away, too, and the whole transport swings forward from the back and empties its cargo of human lives into the ocean.

They are still miles from the shore.

“We must retreat,” Temeraire cries. It seems Murat, at least, agrees. Signals flash. The transports begin to turn and Temeraire gladly follows.

No courier goes to the Emperor.

A third transport falls into the water. Laurence counts six dragons boarded. Then, “Lumiere,” he says unwillingly. Temeraire twists his neck around sharply. The little Flamme-de-Gloire is being herded away from the chaos, wings drooping.

It is a victory, Laurence tells himself. England has no firebreathers. All of this is a victory.

A fourth transport falls. Two-thousand lives.

It doesn't feel like success.

* * *

 

“Despite the setback we can conclude that the Conflict of November 5th was a triumph for France, which dealt a severe blow to English morale and great damage to a number of their reduced Aerial Corps...”

Laurence drops his pamphlet and sighs. _Le Moniteur Universal,_ Paris's premier state paper, is a commonly recognized tool of the Ministry. Still, it is shocking that even Napoleon could try to spin the slaughter over Dover Strait as some sort of victory. Every other paper in France will doubtlessly be reprinting the same story.

Temeraire does not respond to the reading with any outrage or deprecations. When Laurence looks the dragon is staring down with a furrowed brow. “Laurence,” he says. “It does not mention any of the dragons we lost, like Lumiere – not even any of the people. Or, not most of them. It says there were a thousand casualties but that is a lie. Even one transport had more than a thousand men.”

“Napoleon does not want to cause a panic. He does not want people to doubt the government.”

“People will not doubt the government if it works properly. And they _should,_ if it does not.”

“He does not want them to doubt,” Laurence says again.

Temeraire digs his talons into the ground. “It does not seem right.”

“You may ask him about it yourself, if you like.” Selfishly, Laurence hopes that Temeraire may yet distance himself from the Emperor. He has saved England once, it seems. Let him have this. “The Empress Josephine has invited us to Paris come Sunday.”

But on Sunday they do not find a warm welcome at the Tuileries. Instead there is a delegation already outside, and Laurence hastily gets to the ground while trying to recall his Chinese. He gives up the effort. “Zhou Lim, Sun Kai,” he acknowledges. “I apologize. I have not been informed of a meeting for today...?”

Laurence never knew that Zhou Lim could speak English. The ambassador addresses him in brief, curt sentences: “There is no meeting. We are leaving France in two weeks. There is no treaty. This country is not strong. The Emperor is not interested in an alliance.”

Laurence winces. The Chinese are technically his responsibility, though he has – deliberately – done little to foster their fondness. “If this is about Dover - “

“It is,” comes the reply. “Even in great numbers, with the support of a Celestial, France is weak. The Emperor is not interested,” he repeats, “in an alliance – China will stand alone. The West is for the West. Good day, Captain – Lung Tien Xiang.” The Chinese bow to Temeraire and Ambassador Lim leads the group away.

“Oh,” says Temeraire a bit sadly. “I enjoyed speaking with them.”

He is, perhaps, the only one who might say so. “I will see if the Empress is inside,” Laurence responds. Still staring after the Chinese, Temeraire nods and curls slowly on the palace grounds.

There are more dragons as he walks along the brick path to the Tuileries' entrance. He sees them overhead in the air, too, small couriers, light-weights, middle-weights. Not all of them are the usual palace sentinels. A Petit Chevalier flies overhead wearing a bright gold rope around his neck, emblazoned with an epaulette, and spirals down to land nearby. Laurence wonders when Paris became a hub for dragons – and when he failed to notice it.

The guards direct him to the small office where he met Napoleon Bonaparte nearly nine months before. The Emperor looks both tired and angry.

“I suppose you have talked to them,” he says. “The Chinese.”

“Sire.”

“Of course they leave. Europe mocks us and the East does, too. Nearly eleven thousand dead, twelve dragons gone – dead, boarded, who knows – I want to know how it happened.”

“Sire, the attack was only ever a chance - “

“Eleven _thousand,_ in minutes,” Napoleon says. “Even when we fled they killed us. I will not forget this. I will never forget.”

Laurence lowers his eyes.

It was unconscionable that England continued to attack when they retreated, if only because of the sheer scale of the destruction. To kill a man with a rifle, a sword, is one thing. The wholesale slaughter made by simply tipping over a transport boggles the mind.

“When I find out who was responsible,” Napoleon begins.

“Perhaps they did not believe the messenger we sent back,” Laurence interjects, “And so Dover was fully staffed when we arrived. Or perhaps any number of factors affected the outcome; we do not know there was a traitor.”

“Oh, I am certain.” But Bonaparte scowling leans and puts a hand against his desk. “ - I often think of the fate that led you to harness Temeraire.”

Laurence shifts and tugs his neckcloth down.

“It would have been the smallest thing for an opportunistic sailor – some cabin boy, some petty officer - to have been in your place instead. A man who would have sold us straight to the Chinese or even the English. War is always a matter of chance in the end.”

Laurence takes a step closer to the door. He has nothing to say to this.

After a moment Bonaparte adds, “But we are not finished yet.”

* * *

 

“I suppose we will not see Lumiere until the war is over,” Temeraire says. He twists his head toward the clearing's treeline, and thus toward the far-off, invisible ocean separating them from England.

“He will be perfectly safe,” Laurence says. “English prisoners are not treated so well as ours; but their customs are not cruel, my dear. Lumiere will not be harmed, and Captain Gustav will be treated with the utmost care for his benefit.”

“I wonder what it is like to not have a war,” Temeraire says. “But you were reading the _Moniteur_ last week, Laurence, and you mentioned so many countries. All of them were interested in fighting – I wonder if it ever really stops.”

“We need not be concerned about other countries,” says Laurence after a pause. “Only peace at home.”

“I think it is just that sort of attitude which lets people sneak in and ruin our peace,” Temeraire says. “It is rather like saying we should ignore the fact that the dragons in the mountains are starving, and then be surprised when they attack French cows; you have told me the government sets out provisions to prevent just that thing from happening. I do not see why people cannot understand that to have security everywhere would be in all ways better.”

“We do not have the right to interfere with other countries.”

“That is a fine thing to say when we are at war, and interfering anyway,” Temeraire sighs. “There must be some place on earth without fighting, Laurence. I am certain of it.”

“Perhaps we will have a chance to travel one day and find that place.”

Temeraire is still staring toward the ocean. “I think I am going to sleep now,” he says. “Good-night, Laurence.”

* * *

 

The courier is Rankin again.

Laurence hesitates. Waves crash against the mouth of the cave and glint black under a half-moon. “You have a new dragon,” he says, because Rankin is clearly not going to explain.

“Hello,” says the dragon softly. She sounds young. “I am Elsie.”

“And I did not tell you to talk,” Rankin snaps. The Winchester winces and ducks her head. “This may be the last time we speak, Captain Laurence, so listen well.”

Elsie sneezes.

“Are you quite well?” Laurence asks.

“She's fine, something is just going around the coverts,” Rankin interjects. “ - We do not have time for niceties. Here.”

Rankin hands over the letter. Laurence peels back its seal. He stares at the neat ink, the precise and explicit orders. “This latest invasion was a bad business – a very bad business. And now Napoleon is rounding up men. Most of them falsely accused, naturally, but he has killed enough of our spies. We cannot risk another attack. We must take action.”

Laurence touches the letter. “So it has come to this.”

“Do not tell me you never suspected,” Rankin scoffs. Elsie glances between them. “That you never imagined you might hold these orders. It is an unpleasant business, but I am glad. This war may be over soon if you do not muck up matters.”

An unpleasant business.

“You can do it, of course?” Rankin asks sharply.

“I understand my duty,” Laurence says.

“Good. We have messengers in place – if you cannot get out,” which of course, of course he will not - “ - I expect we shall hear the news by morning.” Here Rankin actually pauses, looking back before he moves to step into his harness. “ - Good luck.”

And then Elsie turns, and they are gone.

The site is quiet, Gentle waves lap against the shore. Laurence holds the letter with both hands and contemplates throwing it into the ocean.

He turns and begins to walk, very slowly, back to Paris.

It is evening the next day when he arrives. His feet are sore, his mouth dry. The guards take one look at him and then another before they recognize Captain William Laurence and finally grant him entry.

He has a very important message, he tells them. One that cannot wait.

Napoleon is in a meeting.

“Tell the Tsar these terms are unacceptable,” he snaps. Talleyrand sighs and taps his cane, looking at the Emperor like he's a misbehaving child, but the man continues. “No, no, you knew these terms were bad, why did you even bring me this? Are you plotting something? Get this away from me, draw up a better paper – Laurence, why are you here. Do not tell me there is bad news, I cannot take more bad news today.”

Marshals Ney and Soult are present. They glance at him without curiosity. Laurence approaches and takes out the letter. “I have orders, Sire, which I believe you should see at once.”

“Who orders you?” Napoleon is still irritated. “Murat gives you orders, and I order him - “ He opens the letter nevertheless and gives it a brief glance.

Then he looks down again, frozen.

Laurence waits.

Finally Napoleon looks up at him. “I offer no defense,” says Laurence.

“You have been told to kill me.”

This finally garners a reaction from the other men in the room. “My Emperor?” Ney demands. Soult straightens and puts his hand on his sword; Talleyrand takes two hasty steps back.

“Yes,” is all Laurence says.

“You have been a spy.”

“Since the beginning.”

Napoleon searches his face. “...Leave us,” he tells the others.

Talleyrand hobbles out quickly. “Sire!” Soult protests.

“Now!”

Soult colors with indignation. Tugging his coat, he turns on heel and leaves. Ney lingers at the exit with one hand on his sword. Then, with a loud bang, the door shuts.

Napoleon tears the orders in half and flings the parchment on his table like so much trash. “William Laurence,” he says slowly, testing the sound.

“It is my name,” Laurence offers.

“Your only attempt at honesty, I suppose. Do not flinch like I am cruel! And you - “ Napoleon's face twists. “You told them about Dover. The English - You killed my men.”

“Yes,” Laurence says.

Napoleon steps in front of him and grabs him by the shoulder. Stares hard into his eyes – like he can understand, like he can read the signs of deceit if only he searches.

Laurence looks back evenly.

“I should have you hanged,” Napoleon says. “That is what I should do. Hanged as the traitor and the coward you are.”

“Yes,” Laurence agrees.

Napoleon releases him. Whirls around and marches to his desk. Laurence stands still and watches. The Emperor pulls out a pistol and turns it over in his hand.

Laurence folds his hands behind his back.

“You could be useful yet,” Napoleon speculates.

“I fail to see how,” Laurence admits.

Napoleon meets his eyes again. He puts down the gun.

* * *

 

Laurence puts a hand on Temeraire's leg. The sun has left his skin hot, and the dragon closes his eyes against the sight of the hangman's pillar. Napoleon, near the front of the familiar Place de la Concord, has a small piece of parchment in hand. He does not need to read from it.

“Today, citizens, is a victory for our country. We are gathered to see the death of a spy – an English outlaw who came to our lands to steal away our hope and our peace. Through his efforts thousands of French men and women lost their lives this past November...”

Jeremy Rankin, glaring coldly at the assembled crowd, steps forward at a gesture from the executioner. He stands on the end of a rickety cart. Somewhere isolated from the scene a mournful, distinctly draconic voice is crying loud enough to be heard all throughout the streets.

Laurence raises his head and forces himself to watch. He sold out the man; he can do that much.

Rankin lifts his chin. The noose's rope spills around his neck and closes together. The executioner pulls it taut, checks for frays, and nods. He says something to Rankin. The aviator shakes his head.

The cart pulls away.

Napoleon pauses half a beat. “I would like to use this opportunity,” he says, while Rankin swings and jerks on the rope, “to present Captain William Laurence of Temeraire. For his valiant actions on the 5th, and his role in revealing this spy, we award him today with the Legion d'Honneur. We wish him well on his upcoming diplomatic mission to China...”

Rankin's feet are still twitching. Uncertain applause scatters through the air and fades quickly.

Napoleon looks at Laurence and offers a cold smile. “Good luck, Captain.”

* * *

 

And when they are on a ship, bound for the Orient and yet another foreign world, there is this:

“I do not know why you could not be happy in France,” Temeraire says. “I do not know why you fought for England, who was so far away, and needn't be anything to us.”

Instead of arguing Laurence says, “My choices need not be yours. I beg you to remember that you may make your own path, Temeraire. I would not blame you for choosing to do so.”

At that Temeraire leans down his head and nudges his captain against the side. “Oh, Laurence. I will never leave, and I hope we will be together always. But I only hope the future can be happier – for both of us.”

 

 


End file.
